When Autumn Came
by Business of Misery
Summary: "You're named after a woman who died for love, what does that say of you?" His eyes were unforgiving, burning the breaths she had not even yet taken. "It says I'm a fool, Sherlock Holmes. But I wouldn't trade my foolishness for your loneliness." Eponine Ripley, who needs help from the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes, who needs Eponine Ripley. Sherlock/OC
1. Prequel

She was bound and gagged, tortured in the most brutal way a human could possibly be. The blood coursed through her veins, surging like a rapid river with every beat of her heart. There were no external wounds to be found, save the deep circles of ash beneath her eye. They were tired, cerulean kaleidoscopes, peering through the settled dust on the surface of every passing face. There was more pain beneath the surface of her paper skin than she could possibly contain; ready to burst at the seams, like the stitching of a patch on a torn quilt, stuffed with the very things that made one human- love and hate, life and death, pain and joy. They filled her to the brim, watering her eye and grinding her teeth.

Yes, she had suffered for these twenty-four years of life, the harshest punishment that any man or woman or child had ever endured. It was a common suffering, one that many before her and many after her would be forced through: a square through a too-small circle, trapped like a ship in a bottle. T'was a grief not spoken, shielded from the eyes of those too simple to understand that they, too, were in the same suffering that cerulean eyes had already spotted.  
The cure to the sickness was within reach, she would someday discover. What, then, did she have? The torture, easily found upon spending a thoughtful afternoon by the window, was simply to be so incredibly…

_Ordinary._

Eponine had known this for many years- no one need tell her that she was, like the rest of the human race, was the source of her own boredom. To be human, she had mused, was nothing special. A million years had passed beneath her nose, kissing her lips and fading into a moment of memory. There was nothing unique about the way she went upon her day. The sun would rise with each passing day. The wind would blow through the trees and carry with it the songs of yesterday. Tomorrow would be the same as yesterday. She would awaken and find herself living the same boring routine that had plagued her for the past three months- she would see the same faces in every crowd, robotic and coated with wax.

How completely _boring_ she was.

The twenty-four year old waitress fell into this routine without question the moment she had moved to London. It was new scenery, at least that she could admit. But within weeks she had found that her life was no more exciting than it had been in Leeds. Nothing exciting had ever happened to her, and she herself was not particularly enticing. Though her skin itched, coating her with a feeling of deep angst, Eponine had done very little to change her lifestyle. Sometimes she wore her hair up, some days it was down and curled. As far as interesting went, Eponine found that she was not of the genre.

It might have bothered her, she supposed, if her life had ever been anything but mundane. She did not believe in the fairytales with magic fairies or falling in love with a prince- that sort of thing did not exist and as far as she was concerned, if it did, it was not a part of her story. She did not need a thrilling chase or to fight dragons.

The one thing Eponine never expected, however, was to run into John Watson, who was sipping tea at the Canteen when she arrived for work on a boring Tuesday afternoon. He was alone, which did not surprise her, but his very presence was not one she had ever thought she would accompany again.

"John Watson!" Eponine's voice floated through the air like a feather in the wind, carrying itself and wrapping around the doctor's neck like a noose. He looked up from the papers that were scattered across the tabletop, leaning back in his chair. A smile crossed his face, etching into the wrinkles that were beginning to form on his cheeks.

"Eponine." His voice had aged with him, grey as the flecks of color in his hair. Eponine pulled the chair opposite him out and sat in it, crossing her legs to the side of the cushion. "Wow, you've grown." He let out a dry laugh and Eponine knew he simply didn't know what else to say. "I thought you were living in Leeds."

"Only while Antony was in Sussex." Eponine answered, her eyes drifting down to the scattered information John had been examining. She couldn't make heads or tails of it and assumed it had to do with his work and let it lie. A genuine Cheshire grin crossed over her face, lifting the freckles on her nose. John looked back at her with kind eyes, crossing his arms in front of him on the table.

"You're working at the Canteen?" John gestured her nametag with a nod. Eponine's eyes glittered as she put her chin in the palm of her hand. John had always been so lovely to the much younger girl and Eponine had always respected him for such an act. They were nearly ten years apart in age, but somehow she felt like she got on with John nearly as well as her brother did.

"Sure am. We've only been in town about two months now, though. Not sure how much I like it." Eponine snuck a look to the side, eyeing the stout woman at the counter who was shooting her looks of disapproval. "What about you, Doctor Watson?" Eponine laughed at the quirked brow John sent her way.

"Not a whole lot." He sighed, his shoulders relaxing. "I've been working at a clinic and, uh.." John trailed off, working his tongue in his mouth. Playing Scooby-Doo with my flat mate didn't sound like the ideal way to phrase what he and Sherlock Holmes did, even if it was accurate. "Helping my flat mate with his business."

"Oh, John Watson, the business tycoon." Eponine laughed, sitting up straight in her chair. "Listen, I've got to get to work, but I'll tell Antony you say hello. Maybe you could drop by for tea?"

"That would be fantastic." John nodded appropriately as Eponine slid out of her chair, straightening her shirt as she rounded the table and gave him a wave. He returned the kind gesture, watching as her chestnut hair floated behind her as she vanished into the kitchen, door swinging in her wake.

John Watson took a drink from his sugarless tea, eyes falling back on the work before him. They had lost all interest in the five minutes he had been distracted by a girl he had once called a friend. Rubbing his temples, John decided that, if they rang, tea sounded rather lovely. He would have to remember not to mention this to Sherlock, though it would not surprise him if the sociopath deduced it or insisted on following John when he did go out to see his old friend. He could already sense a disaster heading his way.

Eponine tied an apron around her waist, washed her hands, and grabbed a hand towel from the table in the kitchen. She wove between the counters and sinks, humming to herself. Her encounter with John Watson was pushed to the back of her mind for later as she scooped plates into her arms and pushed through the door to the house.

Torture, she thought with an inwardly groan. Her mundane life was pure torture. She circled tables like a dog chasing its tail, boring faces bleeding into each other as the clock turned with the passing minutes.

She had no idea how interesting it was about to become.


	2. Old Familiar Places

___Wow, got my first review within minutes of this being up. I'm so glad it's already being well received. Thanks so much to everyone already._

* * *

It was not unusual for the sun to have left behind its shadow by the time Eponine had finally been released from the hell of the Canteen. The bitter October wind swept the leaves in circles, stirring them like a mixing pot before casting them into the streets to fend for themselves. She watched them dance, a cesspool of burned oranges and crisp reds as they clawed against the concrete. Eponine found herself smiling as she walked down Baker street, away from the place she had been confined for nearly twelve hours. By now, the sidewalks were thin and bare. The only thing that was left on them were footsteps and memories and Eponine vaguely wondered how many other people had counted the cracks on the surface.

Walking home alone was another thing to be found in the normal for Eponine. Her hands stuffed into the pockets of her white gingham pea coat, she held her head high, despite the wind licking her cheeks. She didn't mind, really. It was fresh and _new, _a stark comparison to the cozy, safe interior of the café. But now the lights had been turned off, doors locked and keys tucked away until morning.

It wasn't a long walk to the flat and Eponine was once again thrown into a familiar place. She could hear Antony at the top of the steps before the door was even opened, the records he had been so fond of playing gently throughout the comforting space they had called home for two months. Hanging up her coat, she found the older man sitting on the couch with his feet propped lazily on the coffee table. He didn't look up as she entered the room, sliding over the back of the furniture to sit beside him.

"Good evening, dear sister mine, how was your lovely day?" Eponine mimicked, turning sideways and laying her feet across Antony's lap. "Oh, it was simply gracious, brother, how I've missed you so!" Her voice was loaded with empty sarcasm as Antony chuckled.

"You made it home in one piece." Antony turned his face toward his sister, the light casting a shadow over the eyes that echoed Eponine's so extravagantly, it may very well be thought the brother and sister shared a set.

"You call Lucy yet?" One of Eponine's brows quirked as Antony drew in a tight breath in response to her question. It was let out slowly and Eponine sat up straight, eyes narrowed at the man at the end of the couch.

"Unfortunately." He gritted his teeth in disdain, baring the sharp canines as they grit together. "She didn't take my departure very well."

"Departure?" Eponine let out a loud laugh, curling her toes. "That's what you're calling it? You dumped her, Antony. Departure!" Antony smacked his sister's calf as she continued to snort, putting her hands behind her head for support.

"Very funny." Antony growled, reaching for the cup of iced water that sat on the table beside him. Eponine watched his Adam's apple bob as he drank, her mouth twisting into a half-frown.

"She was nice." She mused, picturing the strawberry blonde girl in the back of her head. "Okay. Maybe too nice."

"She was dreadful." Antony murmured, setting the glass back down beside him, tongue running quickly over his lips. "Besides, distance isn't working out for me."

"Oh!" A sudden spark went off in Eponine's head and she snapped her fingers, pointing at her brother as a memory was brought to the surface of her mind. "You'll never guess who I saw today- John Watson." Antony shook his head at the eagerness of the young woman.

"Really now? I thought he was still in Afghanistan." Antony watched after Eponine as she dug through her pockets for her cell phone. Withdrawing it, she scrolled through her contact list, looking for John's number. "I wonder if his number is still the same, it's been ages. I told him he could come 'round for tea sometime. Maybe he'll bring along his flat mate."

"Flat mate?" Antony snorted. "He have a girlfriend or something?"

"Actually, I'm not really sure." Eponine's brows knit together- that was something she hadn't thought to ask. "I think his flat mate's a man."

"Oh." Antony nodded, not sure if that really answered the question at hand. "Well, call him up in the morning then, he can come around noon if he's not too busy."

"Fabulous." Eponine replied, tossing the phone absently on the table beside Antony's feet. "I should be off to bed, really. Been a long day." As if on cue, a yawn escaped her lips and Eponine spun around, pulling her feet toward her and sliding lazily off the couch. She placed a kiss on top of Antony's head, a warm gesture from childhood that had never died, and vanished into the door at the opposing end of the room.

After changing into comfortable clothing that didn't smell of coffee and honey, Eponine found herself curled on the bed, ensnared by a barrage of blankets. The lights had been snuffed, leaving only a thin stream of moonlight snaking its way into the room. She could barely make out the shapes of her dresser and chair, looming on the other side of the room. She listened as the record stopped playing, the floorboards creaked and, finally, the door to Antony's bedroom fell closed. Silence filled the Ripley home and Eponine allowed her eyes to finally fall.

* * *

He was hanging by the most slender of threads from a near bare tree, feet swaying in the breeze. Blonde hair stuck to his forehead and numb fingers hung by his sides. The eyes that matched Eponine's stared back at her in the nightmare, from which she would wake with sweat caressing her brow and shaking shoulders that she could not calm.

Throwing the covers from her frozen body, Eponine found feeling in her feet. She moved the curtain that had blocked out the glorious moonlight, allowing it to breathe into her eyes. A tree filled her vision, standing alone on the corner of the darkened street. The tree was nearly identical to the one in her terrible dream. It was cedar; the leaves of past lives looked down upon Eponine with a sadness that only a leaf could understand.

Leaves had short lives, Eponine realized. They were born in the Spring, so full of life with their heads raised to the sky. Carelessly they danced in the whispering wind, listening to the birds sing and children laugh.

In the summer, the leaves were grown, wild and free in the sparkling sun. They were naïve, so unaware of the fates they would soon be consumed by. They had friends in the green grass, blue sky and yellow sunlight.

When Autumn came, the leaves began to die. The wind was an enemy, replacing kisses with bites. The birds had gone away and children remained inside; the sun did not shine through the grey clouds and the grass was overturned with dirt. The leaves would watch their lovers fall to the ground, sometimes like feathers and sometimes like bricks, and the distance between them and their fallen comrades was too much for them to bear. So, inevitably, they too would leap to their deaths upon the soiled ground beneath the cedar trees. And there they would be buried, lost beneath the surface and never seen again.

Eponine allowed the curtain to fall closed before her, turning her back to the sleek piece of glass that separated her from the tree. She could not shake the terrible dream from her mind, the image burned, glaring, into her vision. With a deep breath, Eponine closed her eyes again and tried to forget the nightmare.


	3. Light My Candle

_Thanks so much to everyone who's reading and reviewing. It's seriously my motivation. Sherlock shows up in this chapter and he's on a new case! Tell me what you think ;) **The game is**_** on!**

The first thing Eponine had discovered upon waking up the next morning was not the sunlight that had replaced the ever glowing moon. It wasn't that her blankets had cocooned her in excruciating heat or that the records were not playing as they typically were; no, this came to no shock to her. It was typical that Antony would leave in the early hours of the morning and she would not see him all day. Instead, the most interesting thing Eponine found upon awakening was that her window was slightly open, allowing the cool breeze to snake across the floor, gently rocking the curtains like long, thin dancers.

Eponine shifted so that she was free of the blankets, allowing her arms to push the offending material away. It was colder in her room than it had been before, her bare feet iced on the hard wood floors. As she shut the window, a firm thud as the pane hit the sill, her eyes fell once more on the lonely tree. It waved at her and she found a great deal of disease crawl up the disks in her spine.

She stripped her clothes, ignoring the strange feeling that continued to breathe on the back of her neck as she climbed into the shower, closing the curtain and therefore shutting off her contact with the outside world. Searing water flushed over her skin, filling the air with steam. Her eyes closed and she tried to concentrate on the shower, but she couldn't shake that feeling that she wasn't alone.

Once her hair was in a low lying ponytail, damping the back of her shirt as she padded through the empty home, Eponine felt herself begin to relax. She sunk into the couch where she had been the night before, watching the news with mild interest.

"-has claimed yet another victim, this time a male. Police are looking for any suspects, but it would seem that Scotland Yard will be turning once again to the famed Sherlock Holmes. The long-time famous detective is widely known for solving over a hundred crimes just this past year- including the case of monstrous proportions in Baskerville- giving the detectives a run for their money." The reporter babbled into a microphone, but Eponine paid very little attention to the woman's next few words as she squinted into the telly. Her eyes must have been deceiving her, but alas, there it was again!

John Watson had walked through the background where the reporter was standing in front of the London Library, one of the largest in the world. Beside him was a tall man with very dark hair, his coat tails waving behind him as the two men ascended the steps. The taller man kept his head down as though he didn't want to be seen and the two vanished into the library. Eponine shot forward as though getting closer to the television would allow her to jump through the screen and race into the library after the duo. Try as she might, she couldn't see them anymore and her hands were soon fumbling on the table for her cellphone. She had meant to call John anyway, right? What harm could it do just to make sure?

Her hands shook as she found John's number, hoping it hadn't changed, and the line began to ring. She wasn't sure if she was excited or nervous- why should she be?- but when the line picked up and she heard fumbling on the other end, all feelings of being watched had vanished from her mind.

"Hello?" John Watson's voice catered the other end. There were noises behind him, not quite loud enough to make out, but people were speaking and she heard the vague noise of people moving about.

"John? It's Eponine." She practically yelled, hoping he could hear her.

* * *

John held the phone away from his head as her voice protruded his ear. He looked around at the scene around him: the bustling officers as they searched the library for anything useful, though he doubted they would find anything more useful than Sherlock. The doctor had followed his friend up the steps of the huge building, winding through the thousands of books that occupied the space. Sherlock had tiptoed around the body laying on the floor, paying mediocre attention as his eyes surveyed the book-lined walls of the extravagant area.

"Eponine, hello. How are you?" John inquired back, hating the idea of being rude to the poor girl.

"John," Sherlock's voice was harsh as he looked up at the doctor, impatient as ever. He knelt next to the body of a middle-aged man, face down in an opened book. Blood had dried around the man's neck, the wound searing deeply into his exposed flesh. Sherlock had not removed the book yet and was currently deducing the man's occupation which, judging by the man's attire, was an accountant. "Get off the phone, we've got a case."

"John, the strangest thing's happened." Eponine's voice echoed in John's head. He wanted to laugh- she had no idea. If only she knew. "I swear I've just seen you on the telly. Where are you?"

"I'm, uh," John ignored Sherlock's mumbling and his own eyes scanned the body. "Helping my flat mate."

"Are you at the library?" John was surprised to find no hint of skepticism in her voice. Instead, he was sure it was only excitement. When he did not immediately answer, Eponine let out a shrill laughter which caused John to hold the phone out once more. "Your flat mate is Sherlock Holmes? A detective?"

"Not a detective, _the_ detective; and I'm sure whatever trivial pursuits you have in mind can wait for another time." Sherlock said into the phone. He had snatched it from John's hand as he held it out, taken only a moment to acknowledge the girl on the other end, and then promptly hung up before shoving it back into John's hand. He exchanged a look with his partner before turning back to the body.

"That was rather rude, you know. It could have been important." John sighed, shoving the device into his pocket. Sherlock knelt back down, tilting the dead man's face toward him with a ginger motion of his fingertips.

"It wasn't. You can call her later." Sherlock stated factually, sliding the book from beneath the man's head. He made careful note of the page number, just in case it would turn up to be important at a later date, and closed the book, careful not to rip any of the worn pages. The detective handed John the book, who looked at it with confusion.

"Fahrenheit Four-Fifty One?" John mumbled, turning through the book as Sherlock continued to prod the body like a dead frog. "'It was a pleasure to burn.' What do you think it means?"

"No idea." Sherlock answered, coming to his full height, leering ominously over the dead man, hands emerging into the pockets of his coat.

"What have you got?" Lestrade appeared around the corner, tugging uncomfortably at his rubber gloves. Sherlock said nothing for a long moment, taking the book from John to inspect it.

"Widowed, fourty-three. Accountant, hates his job, addicted to pornography. Unhappy with his lifestyle choices. Boring." Sherlock answered. "Throat was slit, but not here. His body was brought here after he was dead. So was this book- no library tags. Keep the book, we might need it later." Sherlock glanced at Lestrade to know the man was listening to his words before turning back to John. "The last victim was found with _The Name of the Rose _floating in the bathtub_._ Now we've got a face buried in Fahrenheit 451."

"So the books are important then?" Lestrade inquired, turning the book over in his hands and examining the deep red cover.

"Of course they're important. They aren't being left by accident." Sherlock snapped at the other detective, turning on the spot. "He leaves the body in a library, face down in a book that didn't come from any of the shelves. Why?"

John and Lestrade could not answer Sherlock's question, the three men staring at the silent victim between them. Sherlock snatched the book from Lestrade's hand, turning to the page of which had been left opened. Reading through it, he found nothing that stood out explicitly. Disappointment shrouded him and he tossed the book carelessly over his shoulder, where it landed roughly on the hard tile. John and Lestrade exchanged a look as Sherlock turned to face them.

"Why that particular book?" Sherlock spoke more to himself than to the other men, parading down the grand, winding staircase in a huff. John followed behind him, fumbling in his pockets for his phone.

* * *

Eponine sighed as the line went dead, the velveteen voice on the other end searing into her brain. She pulled her knees to her chest, sighing and blowing a piece of stray hair away from her face. The detective had not been kind in the two sentences she had heard him, but for some reason the sound was burned into the front of her mind. There was no real reason, she decided as she brought herself to her feet and found her way into the kitchen. She took a luscious, green apple from the bowl on the counter and took a bite, allowing the juice to calm her nerves.

The feeling of being watched emerged once more from the shadows, playing a game with her childlike tendencies to be easily paranoid. Shaking her head, Eponine watched the clock tick by, the sound of the news floating in through the doorway. She didn't listen to it, really, as she rounded the corner and back into the room. There they were, once again, this time leaving the library rather subtly, the same way one would walk from house to car to go out to dinner. As if on cue, Eponine heard the sound of her phone ringing on the coffee table. She answered without looking, a smile crossing her face.

"Sorry, Eponine, Sherlock's a bit…" John trailed off, looking at his comrade that sat beside him in the cab.

"Off kilter?" Eponine laughed. John couldn't help but smile at her innocent notion. "I was only calling to see about you coming over for tea this afternoon. I've had the day off and it's been rather dull thus far- for me, at least."

John had to agree with Eponine. His day had been far more interesting than Eponine's, but at least Sherlock had been tolerable. Thus far, anyway. It was only just noon, John noted as he glanced at his watch.

"No time." Sherlock mumbled, meaning to negate John's desire for more reasonable company. He ignored his flat mate as the cab pulled up to 221 Baker street.

"Is two alright? I've just gotten home. I'm sure Sherlock will need someone to pretend to listen to him for a bit." John joked. Sherlock sent him a rather hateful glare, but the doctor merely smiled at his flat mate.

"Sounds great!" Eponine glanced at the clock herself. "You can bring him along, if you like. I'd love to meet him."

* * *

"I'm going out then." John grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair unceremoniously, closing the lid to his laptop, having just updated his blog. Sherlock didn't seem to hear him, sitting in his chair with his hands steepled in front of his face, crystalline eyes focused on the book on the table. John glanced down at it, finding it to be _The Name of the Rose. _It seemed to be plaguing the detective. He had been staring at the cover for two hours now, unmoving, not even bothering to touch the book, much less open it. "Right." John hesitated, wondering if he should prod Sherlock into going to the Ripley home with him.

On one hand, the detective needed to get out just as much as John did. They had been quite busy with the most recent case and even John could tell that it was driving Sherlock mad. He thought for a moment that perhaps a break was what Sherlock needed. After all, Sherlock's best ideas came when he least expected them.

On the other hand, Sherlock was Sherlock. There was no way of knowing what he would do or say, especially considering he had never met Antony or Eponine before. John must have lingered too long because he felt the heat of Sherlock's gaze on the side of his face and was suddenly much more aware that he had not shaved that day.

"Did you say something?" Sherlock sounded rather bored. John sighed.

"I'm going to have tea with some old friends." John told him, buttoning up his jacket to fight what he knew would be a harsh incoming wind. Sherlock let a short, low hum escape his lips. "Do you want to come?" He may as well give the other man a chance. John knew he couldn't make the detective get up and out, Sherlock was a grown man after all. The slightest falter of thought crossed Sherlock's sharp face, but he did not answer. John nodded in understanding, not needing a word. He bid the thoughtful man farewell and slipped out of 221B, taking in the crisp October air.

Arriving on Eponine's doorstep, John was not surprised to find the girl glowing at the sight of him. Her arms wrapped around him and he returned the gesture with a laugh. She brought him inside, closing the door to the hardened world beyond the wooden door. The home was warm, comforting, and nothing like Baker street.

"I can't believe I didn't know you were in London before yesterday." John remarked casually, taking an offered seat. Eponine handed him a cup of black tea, curling her feet under her in the softness of the flat. John's eyes scanned the room, breathing in every aspect of what made up Eponine's life. It was incredibly ordinary, he mused, compared to his own home. There was no skull on the mantle- instead there was a set of blueberry candles, one of which was lit. Her bookshelf was adorned with several neatly straightened books and John felt a smile crawl onto his face as he spotted the record player shoved into the corner.

"We've been terribly busy, though it is odd, with the Canteen being on the street where you live."

"How'd you know where I live?" John shouldn't have been surprised as Eponine's brow rose.

"Internet. When I found out who your flat mate was I looked him up. Science of Deduction?" Eponine laughed and John couldn't help but feel incredibly at home in her living room. It had been so long, he realized, since he had spent time- real time- around normal people. Sherlock had swallowed him whole, pulling him away from anyone who had ever been remotely normal. Sure, there was Lestrade, Molly and a few others, but they weren't people he saw beyond helping with cases. Sherlock would never casually hang out with someone.

"243 types of cigarette ash." John added. In that moment, the door swung open. John turned to look at the intruder, finding a blonde man standing in the doorway, taking off his boots. He got to his feet as the other military man began to hang his coat. "Antony!"

"John Watson!" Antony caught sight of the doctor and the men shook hands, adding a friendly, firm pat on one another's backs. Eponine shook her head at their behavior.

The rest of the afternoon was spent catching up- telling war stories (they learned that John had been shot in the shoulder) and making arrangements for further tea-meetings. Eponine's face lit up like the blueberry candle when she asked John for a story about his companion, famed detective Sherlock Holmes. John had been surprised that she had never heard of him before and imagined the damage that would have done to his ego to hear. John told her about his first case with the man and could have talked for ages about how strange he was. She had been disappointed that he had not come along, though the assumed, judging by the way John Watson talked about him, that he wasn't much of a people person.

After John had left, Eponine locked the door behind him. Antony scooped up the three cups that had been forgotten on the table, disposing of them in the kitchen while Eponine watched John as he vanished into a cab that would take him back to Baker street.

"I'm off tomorrow." Antony yawned, checking his watch. The sun had created a blanket of orange and pink across the London sky and Eponine was not surprised that he was already exhausted. She kissed his cheek and, as he vanished into his room, blew out the candle on the fireplace. A tiny gust of smoke erupted, dissipating into the air above where the flame had been. As she watched it swirl into the air, a tiny bubble of white vapor, a familiar feeling- long ignored until that very moment- made her skin crawl, painting her skin with goosebumps and raising the hair at the back of her neck. On instinct, her hand went to the back of her neck as though touching it could make it go away. But it didn't, and Eponine double-checked that the door was indeed locked before retreating to her room for the night.


	4. Glad to've Met You

I'm so amazed at how many followers I have already. Special thanks to E4me100 for the reviews! I love hearing from people. This chapter isn't too long, I'm afraid, but more eventful than the previous. Also, if you didn't know, I made a tumblr for the page- it's whenautumncameforsherlock . I'm going to have some images and videos on there that will be related to the story. Thanks so much again for everyone reading and reviewing. Here's the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

"_We need not to be let alone. We need to be really bothered once in a while. How long is it since you were really bothered? About something important, about something real?"_

The book's pages fell together with a harsh snap, the pages wrinkling in front of the detective's nose. It landed harshly on top of the other book, one that had not been touched in two days. Sherlock's fingers tapped impatiently on the arm of his chair and his legs kept crossing and uncrossing as he stared ahead. A loud groan of frustration escaped his lips and he jumped from the chair, hands pressed at his temples as he tried, once again, to search for something, _anything _that would make a connection. It didn't help that the victims were incredibly boring people: a housewife who, much to Sherlock's disappointment, wasn't even having an affair, and an accountant who wasn't even married. It unnerved him that there seemed to be no reason for these people to die. A pounding in his head was growing strong with every thought that crossed through his mind and was negated.

He'd searched through the books, for hours. Looked for matching themes, researched the authors- anything he could- trying desperately to find something alike between the two. He and John had searched the homes of the victims and the places they had been found dead, but neither of them was talking. It had caused Sherlock to run into a wall and he wasn't quite sure how long it would take to break through it.

John was not surprised when he entered the flat to find Sherlock standing completely still between the couch and table, eyes closed as he worked through his mind palace. Without a word, John sat down at his desk, occasionally glancing at the flat mate. He hadn't even bothered to put on clothes that morning, the ends of his blue robe swirled around his legs, tied firmly about his waist.

"You're standing. That's new." John remarked. Sherlock did not bother a reply. After tense moments passed, John sighed and picked up _Fahrenheit 451 _and turned to a random page. "Alright then." He cleared his throat, brows narrowed as he tried to understand where in the story he was starting off.

""_There must be something in books, something we can't imagine, to make a woman stay in a__ burning house__; there must be something there. You don't stay for nothing."" _ John read aloud, turning the page. "This guy really liked books."

"Yes." Sherlock mumbled. "That's the furthest I've gotten." An exasperated wind escaped through the thin space between his lips and his eyes opened as he picked up the second book from the table.

"What's that one about?" John asked, looking over Sherlock's shoulder. In all their research, he still wasn't quite sure what the deal was with the books. He had his own life, contrary to Sherlock's beliefs.

"It's rather dull." Sherlock told him, handing over the second book.

John nodded as he set the books back down on the table, wondering how long they had until, if at all, God he hoped not, the murderer would strike again. He didn't have time to dwell as he suddenly recalled his reason for coming home early that day.

"Eponine is coming by for tea soon." John told Sherlock, knowing that the other man was probably not even listening. Sherlock had come to sitting down in his chair once more and John spotted the three nicotine patches on his left arm. "You're really doing that now?"

Sherlock didn't even dignify him with an answer and John set to making tea- something, he realized, he did often. He was sure to make enough for the three of them, hoping he could at least get Sherlock to drink it. It was obvious that Sherlock wouldn't be eating much for the next few days, however long it would take for the case to finally come together. With a heavy heart, John handed Sherlock a cup, black with two sugars and a pleading look in his eye. Sherlock took it gingerly to appease his friend, sipping carefully at it as the doorbell rang.

Sherlock watched idly as John reappeared at the top of the steps with a girl trailing behind him. Her dark brunette hair fell onto her shoulders like a mudded waterfall, eyes curious and filled with naïve happiness. It took him all of ten seconds to deduce her with a half-scowl on his lips. But he caught John's eye and faked a smile as the girl wandered into the room. The moment her eyes found Sherlock, fireworks exploded in the center. So, he deduced, she had been looking forward to seeing him.

"Client?" He inquired, voice monotone and disinterested. Her smile faltered as she sat on the couch at John's discretion. John sat in his own chair, leaning back easily into the back of the seat, but his guard was high.

"No, Sherlock. This is Eponine, I told you she was coming over not two minutes ago." John looked back at Eponine, an apologetic smile crossing his lips in faint. Eponine did not seem quite as offended as she could have been. "He does that. Eponine, this is Sherlock."

"Pleased to meet you." Her own cerulean eyes scanned over Sherlock's face as he finally looked at her- really looked- though it was apparent he didn't quite feel the same. She had not been expecting to find him so appealing in person. He was magnetic, though not with any boyish charm or knee-quivering good looks. Though she had to admit he wasn't half bad to look at, her eyes had not taken enough time to really asses the gentleman who sat in a blue robe- she wasn't sure if he was clothed under it- staring boredly back at her. The only thing she really noticed was those magnificent eyes. They were different, the flecks of sweet gold splayed in them like dripping paint, creating random yet beautiful patterns that were so unlike any other piece of artwork.

"I'd say new girlfriend, but I know that's not true. Old friend, then?" Sherlock said plainly, not touching the half-drunken tea that rest on the table. Eponine nodded without really feeling the movement.

"I've heard a lot about you. Heard you were good." She grinned. Sherlock did not miss the way she sat up straight as though she were nervous, but he wasn't quite sure why she should be. Was she intimidated by him? He choked back the desire to roll his eyes, for John's sake, a smirk of acknowledgment crossing over his face for the shortest of moments.

"The best." He boasted. That was as modest as he got, everyone knew that. Even Eponine seemed to realize just how full of himself the detective could be, as she didn't relax the slightest under his judgmental gaze. He realized how self-conscious she must be. She wasn't trying to impress anyone, that much was clear by her plain clothing and lack of jewelry, so it wasn't as though she was really searching for approval. Perhaps, he wondered vaguely, she had a secret?

"You're dying to show off." Eponine could not hide the laughter in her throat and she covered her mouth. It was obvious from his complete lack of modesty as he assessed her, freely allowing his eyes to roam over her just once more, as though he didn't already know everything from his first glance at her. God, she was so boring. John's eyes scanned between the pair, his own nerves crawling around in the back of his mind. He really didn't want Sherlock to scare her away- he didn't have many friends aside from the sociopath.

"You've only lived in London about two months, with a brother who cares deeply for you. You're a waitress; you chew the end of your left thumb when you're under stress, which happens a lot since you're boyfriend left you. You play the cello, but you're awful at it. You've got a history of depression, no wonder you've experimented with recreational drugs, and you haven't made any friends, not because you're shy- no, you're not- probably because you don't trust people, maybe because you don't know _how _to make friends. I'm betting on the latter."

Eponine stared at Sherlock Holmes for the longest moment after he had finished talked. He was sitting more straight in his chair now, hands folded carefully in his lap. She didn't budge a muscle, not even flinching as he threw his intelligence in her face in the form of truthful insults and even as he sat in silence, waiting for her to react, she felt like she was suffering from a slap across the face. John swallowed hard, turning to his flat mate with anger in the depths of his kind eyes, setting hard like a boulder on his shoulders. He should have known not to bring her around him.

"Sherlock, you don't have to-"

"It's fine." Eponine finally responded, setting her tea cup on the table, now drained of its guts, next to Sherlock's abandoned one. His tea had gone cold, just like him. Confusion split John's face, but Sherlock's curiosity had only just peaked- just slightly, he would point out- as Eponine kept staring at him, bewildered, puzzled, her face nearly unreadable- at least, to anyone but Sherlock. He was not surprised by the anger that swirled in the dark pools. He noticed when the flickering flame in her eye died away and was replaced by something else. It was an emotion he did not recognize, but anger not hatred rest there. How would he know, he wasn't good with feelings. "I know I'm not the first person to tell you, Sherlock Holmes, that you're a pompous, heartless pratt."

Sherlock expected this to lead into a tyraid, as it usually did, with insults cast back at him, maybe she'd run out the door crying or slap him across the face. But Eponine's hard demeanor shattered with a grin as it split her face. The tension that had erupted the volcano in the room finally died down, leaving only a layer of ash behind it. "But that was bloody brilliant."

"What- really?" John was taken aback by her reply and he sat more easily in his chair. Eponine shrugged.

"There's nothing wrong with knowing the flaws of other people, John." She told him, not looking at Sherlock anymore. John searched her face for a hint of being hurt by Sherlock's words. He was sure it was there, but she had masked it with, he presumed, genuine interest. "Although, pointing them out can show how much of an arse you are-" She finally turned back to Sherlock, who looked on with curiosity. "But that's just one of your flaws, isn't it? We all have them. That's how we know we're human. Even Sherlock Holmes is just a man."

It took Sherlock a long moment- well, long for him, it was a mere ten seconds- to process the words Eponine had said. She had called him a pratt, yes. An arse, yes. Even heartless. But she had not told him to piss off or gotten to her feet or shouted. She had told John that he was human, something that he had come to question more than once about himself. It was easy to call Sherlock a machine, a heartless creature from Hell, but to be pointed out as a human being was something he hadn't seen coming. That irked him and his teeth clenched for a brief moment at the back of his jaw. He hated being wrong.

Even in calling him words that would otherwise be hateful, Eponine had neglected to raise her voice and had not ground her teeth or chewed her thumb. Instead, she had _smiled,_ and called him-

"Brilliant?" Sherlock said aloud.

"Well, obviously." She told him. Sherlock blinked. _Amazing _was the word John had used. Sherlock's eyes fell on the doctor, who appeared much calmer, though Sherlock could tell it was a mask to cover up the nerves that still coursed through him. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as the sound of an approaching police car split the air, shutting down the conversation that floated around them and all three of them felt rather glad for the intrusion.

"There's been another murder." Sherlock came to his feet and went to the window. Without a word, John gave Eponine yet another look of apology. She felt like he would be giving her that look often and a sigh escaped her as she and John got to their feet. John put on his jacket, turning to the young woman as Sherlock tied a blue scarf around his neck.

"Can I come?" Eponine inquired, eyes shifting between the two faces. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock beat him.

"Absolutely not."

She was disappointed, even after John apologized and walked with her out the door. Sherlock was ahead of them, already in the street talking to a man with grey hair. The man got into his car and was gone before John and Eponine had gotten to the bottom of the steps. Sherlock was starting to hail a cab already and Eponine shot a look at John.

"Why didn't he just go with that man?"

"He always does that." John answered as the cab stopped at the curb. Sherlock vanished into the cab without so much as a farewell and John stepped aside, meaning to let her in before him.

"That's alright; I need to go by the Canteen for a bit. It was good to see you," Eponine leaned to look into the cab. Sherlock was looking out the window, waiting for his company with deep thought lines in his face. "and meeting you, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock." He answered plainly, not bothering to look her way.

"Sorry 'bout him." John said once last time, climbing into the cab. Eponine waved as it began pulling away, and she was left alone in the bitter, cold October air. It swept around her, lifting up the ends of her coat as she walked gingerly down the street toward the Canteen, pulling her collar up against the wind.

* * *

Smoke still lingered in the air, filling the lungs of every man or woman who neared the crumbling building, the smell of sulfur invading John and Sherlock's lungs as they approached. John stepped over a fallen beam after his friend, glancing down at the rubble around them. Black ash coated everything like darkened snow and it was impossible to tell what had been what. Sherlock lifted the police tape as they walked through what was once a wall, the bricks crumbling at their touch. John coughed, nose wrinkling and trying not to retch as the smell of burning flesh- he would recognize it anywhere, having witnessed many burned, assaulted bodies on the battlefield- met the duo as they found Lestrade and Donovan standing beside what looked to have once been a person. John held his breath as Sherlock bent down to inspect the remaining bones, flesh hanging by a thread. It was still intact, for the most part, but pristine bones could be seen straight through the torso, arms and legs. The only thing he noted was that there was no flesh, not even hair, remaining on the man's head. John felt incredibly ill.

"This isn't right." Sherlock said immediately, taking the skull into his hand. "No, no. This isn't where he died." The detective rotated the head in his hands and John thought he looked an awful lot like Hamlet. His face was contorted and he looked around the crime scene; at the rubble that it had become. Sherlock began walking in the area directly around the body, deep in thought. John allowed his eyes to scan what was left of the building. Pillars that had once been support beams had crashed through the roof and lay in a heap of concrete on the ground, leaving holes in what was left to hang over their heads.

"How do you know?" Lestrade asked, discomfort crossing the fault lines of his face as he watched the other detective walk about, leaving footprints in the soot. Anderson would have a fit, but Sherlock shook his head as though it were plainly obvious.

"Look at this place, it's a heap of rubble and ash." Sherlock groaned, gesturing wildly, arms open as though trying to embrace the corpse of a building. "This place is destroyed. If he'd died in this fire, there wouldn't be any flesh on him. No, he was put here."

"So he didn't die in a fire?" John looked back down at the body, trying to find a cause of death.

"No, but he was burned." Sherlock told him, waving the man to come closer as the detective inspected the man's body. Reluctantly, John followed him and tried not to inhale the fumes of death. Lestrade handed John a pair of gloves, of which he was very thankful, and he put them on before touching the tender flesh that seemed to ooze from the body.

"Chemical burns." John exchanged a look with Sherlock, who swallowed hard.

"We've got something else." Lestrade turned to a man who handed him a plastic evidence bag. Sherlock rose to his feet and snatched it from him, turning it over in his hands. Inside, he was not surprised to find, was yet another book. His eyes narrowed as he tried to read the title through the layer of ash and burns that coated the cover. Realization slapped Sherlock in the face and his mouth gaped in happiness at his new discovery, shoving the book into John's arms.

"Come on, John!" Sherlock yelled, walking briskly toward the main road. John looked down at the book in his hands, knowing full well that Sherlock might very well have just solved their book mystery. Though it had been charred to a point that was almost unrecognizable, John could barely make out the shape of a yellow carousel horse on the cover of the book.

_The Catcher in the Rye._


	5. Bring Him Home

_psst, the tumblr has a video on it now ;) thanks again to my wonderful reviewers and readers. xoxo also, its obvious that i make loads of references in my stories.. so bonus points to who can guess the musical i got her brother's name from (Antony) :) much love to you all!_

* * *

The cafe was bustling with life, the low, flickering lights hummed overhead, leering down over the patrons. The faces were a blur, passing by with whispers and laughter as Eponine stood at the bar, leaning on it and watching the television in the corner. She didn't care much for American football, but it was on regardless and she wondered vaguely why they bothered. A plate was sat in front of her and her attention abruptly dragged from the sport she didn't understand and she was met with a familiar smiling face. He had eyes the color of quicksand that dragged women to his core, matching the array of hair that framed his face and an odd bit of charisma about him.

"Hey, Ben." Eponine sighed, subconciously twisting her barstool. Ben stood across from her, arms crossed over his torso.

"Eat." He told her plainly. She looked down at the cheesecake she'd been given and, with a hesitant glance up, picked up her fork. "What's on your mind?"

At first, Eponine said nothing as she took a slow bite under his watchful gaze. She swallowed it with a stone in her throat, eyes looking anywhere but at his face. She had finished the cheesecake in under a minute, much to her displeasure. It wasn't that the taste was off, it slid down her throat easily enough. But she could rid of the gravely taste in her throat. It itched and she couldn't seem to get it to go away.

"Why don't I have any friends?" Eponine asked Ben suddenly. He seemed taken aback by her question, but his eyes softened as he saw tears pick at the corners of her eyes. He had no idea why she was acting that way, but far be it from him to ask.

"I'm your friend." Ben said simply. Eponine watched as he took the plate and dropped it lazily in the sink made for washing glasses. It was an obvious attempt to difuse the situation, but Eponine's eyes did not leave Ben as he stalked around, tending to his needs. As he ran out of things to do, he stopped in front of her once more and let out a long breath. "What's this about?"

"Someone," She had a brief image of Sherlock flash through her vision, dressed in a blue dressing gown and his ego. Eponine caught herself chewing on the end of her thumb and immediately dropped her hands, crossing them in front of her so they were away from distraction. "just said something that's gotten to me, I guess. But he was right. I don't have any friends."

"Well, you got me, if it counts for anything." Ben told her with a lopsided grin. "And Catherine, Josie..." He listed their coworkers and Eponine tried not to let her smile falter. They were people she knew, sure, and had gotten along with. But she couldn't remember for the life of her the last time she went out for drinks with Ben or had a girl's night. "And Antony."

At the mention of her brother's name, Eponine looked up with a small smile on her face. Antony, of course. Who needed friends when you had family? Ben seemed to register this thought too and he slid a scotch glass toward her. She downed it rather quickly, thanking Ben with a kiss to his cheek.

"And if it helps, I've met less friendly people than you." Ben poured more amber liquid into Eponine's glass, waving to a couple as they passed in through the door. Eponine watched them take a seat in the far corner of the diner, whispering sweet nothings to each other.

"Name one." She snorted, drinking some liquid courage and tearing her eyes away. Ben felt a hint of jealousy whisk on the surface of her skin and smirked at her, receiving only a glare in return.

"Ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?" Ben nodded to the man at the end of the bar, whose paper was thrown open to an article about the detective. Eponine spotted the photo of the man on the right hand column. He wore a deerstalker on his head and attempting to shield himself with his coat, collar turned up against the flashing lights.

"He was the one who said I've got no friends." The man with the paper turned the page, cutting off Eponine's view of the photograph.

"Now that guy," Ben wiped the counter in front of him of scotch droplets. "I don't care how many crimes he's solved. Still a downright git. What does he know anyway? People like you."

"Benjamin!" A tall, broad man shouted from the other end of the bar where he served three young women, who Eponine was sure were using fake identification. Ben gave him a cheeky smile, his own form of half-assed apology for the language. Eponine let out a loud laugh with no help from the two and a half glasses of scotch. A silence passed between the pair as the cafe began to wind down, the sun bleeding throughout the city.

"People only like me because I'm good at showing them what they want to see." Eponine sighed, pushing a stray hair away from her face.

"He pull his Jedi mind trick on you?" Ben leaned on one arm, one brow quirked at the younger woman. She snorted, her nose wrinkling as her eyes roamed the small space around them. The television had been muted long ago, she didn't know when, and now the only sound was a quiet jukebox in the corner, the hum of the fluorescent lights and a murmur of locusts in the form of whispers. She nodded, sipping at the ice water Ben had insisted she have.

"It wasn't too awful. He's not as bad as people think." Ben laughed this time.

"You've met him once. Just wait, you'll be telling him to piss off before you know it."

* * *

She stalked down the street with her head bowed, the October wind kissing the lobes of her ears. The feeling that had plagued her stomach for days now had returned and she couldn't help but cast weary looks at anyone who passed by her. She stopped, a chill running up her spine and she knew it wasn't from the wind.

The streets were near bare now, an occasional taxi whizzing by. Birds had long since abandoned the town, leaving the streets in an uncomfortable silence. As she looked about the street, the knot in her throat tightening so that she might soon choke, her eyes fell upon the door of 221B. The sleek letters stood out harshly against the dark wood of the door, calling to her. She stared at it for a long moment before giving her back to it. She didn't know if John and his flat mate had come home yet, but she wasn't too eager to visit one Sherlock Holmes.

It wasn't as though she hated him. He had been correct in all of his assumptions- deductions, he would have snapped at her- but his bluntness stung and she felt like she had been shot in the heart. She'd asked for it, Eponine decided as she turned the corner onto the her street. She had practically jumped into his lap begging for him to deduce her like a warped Santa Clause. Groaning outwardly, Eponine shoved her hands into her pockets, searching for her keys, stepping up to the door that would lead her to the comfort of home.

A scream burst from her throat as something large seemed to fall from the sky, landing abruptly only three feet away. Her arms covered her head, eyes tightly shut in protection. As she slowly revealed herself to the world again, she felt bile rise into her throat. Instead, another scream came from it, piercing the air so loudly that Big Ben could not rival the sound. She ran into the darkness, hands gripping the wool fabric of a coat and lurching it toward her.

Cerulean eyes stared back at her, their once familiar spark snuffed out against the paling skin. Blonde hair stuck to a masculine face, tainted with a viscous red fluid. She didn't notice when it covered her hands, her grip slipping as she pulled the body into her lap, screaming for help, unaware if it would ever come.

* * *

"The books, John. How did I not see it before!" Sherlock shouted as they climbed into the cab.

"Sorry, I still don't see it." John asked. Sherlock gave the cabbie their address and turned toward his partner in anti-crime. The man's eyes were wild with knowing, flaming with excitement. John was glad, as Sherlock had been driving him just as insane with his constant boredom.

"They're clues to the next murders." Sherlock took the book from John, removing it from it's protective covering, disregarding the ash that poured all over himself and the interior of the cab. It stopped as Sherlock began to dust it with his sleeve, clearing the image on the cover more. The two men bounded into their flat and John could feel Sherlock's thoughts radiating off of him as he arranged the three books on the kitchen counter in between them. He rest on hand harshly on the cover of _The Name of the Rose. "_The first woman, she had this book in her bathtub." John looked up at Sherlock.

"Have you ever actually read _The Name of the Rose?" _John inquired. Sherlock's face fell for only a moment.

"No," he answered honestly. "But I imagine it would smell just as sweet. I know the basis of the plot. The protagonists explore a giant labyrinth of books- a medieval library." Sherlock moved his hand to _Fahrenheit 451, _eyes dancing. "Then a man dies in a _library_. His face was in this one and not two days later..."

_There must be something in books, something we can't imagine, to make a woman stay in a __burning house__. _The words echoed through the minds of the two men in the kitchen and John swallowed. Sherlock pulled the most recent book toward him, flipping through the pages as his eyes scanned them at great speed, flickering across each word as though trying to memorize the curve of each and every letter. John watching him as his thumb flipped through each page, coating the corners with char.

"There." Sherlock stopped toward the end, passing off the book as he passed John into the living room, picking up the doctor's laptop and running his fingers over the keys. John thought about telling him off for getting ash on it, but his eyes searched the page Sherlock had left open in the grimy book and realized that the story had been interrupted.

"Someone tore out a page. Why would they do that?" John's brows furrowed and he looked up. Sherlock was scrolling in silence, searching for the missing page in an online version of the text. John found his place beside the detective.

"Their getting impatient. Serial killers do that, you know. Tired of waiting for us to figure it out so now they've decided to help us out." Sherlock found the chapter and printed it off, comparing it next to the book. John took the extra pages in his hand and Sherlock stopped as he read over the page before passing it off to John, sitting slowly as he contemplated the words in his head.

_ I'm not too sure old Phoebe knew what the hell I was talking about. I mean she's only a little child and all. But she was listening, at least. If somebody at least listens, it's not too bad. _

_"Daddy's going to kill you. He's going to kill you," she said. I wasn't listening, though. I was thinking about something else-something crazy. _

_"You know what I'd like to be? I said. You know what I'd like to be? I mean if I had my goddam choice?" _

_"What? Stop swearing." _

_"You know that song 'If a body catch a body comin' through the rye'? I'd like-" _

_"It's 'If a body meet a body coming through the rye'!" old Phoebe said. "It's a poem. By Robert Burns." _

_"I know it's a poem by Robert Burns." She was right, though. It is If a body meet a body coming through the rye. I didn't know it then, though. I thought it was 'If a body catch a body'. I said, "Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around-nobody big, I mean-except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff-I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy." Old Phoebe didn't say anything for a long time. Then, when she said something, all she said was, "Daddy's going to kill you."_

John passed the page back to Sherlock, who continued to read it over and over, dissecting it like a putrid frog. "What's it mean?"

Sherlock was silent for a long time, though he would hate to admit that he was totally lost. He thought for sure the page would give them some ground, give them somewhere to go. Maybe it was a coincidence, but he highly doubted that it was. The page had been ripped out on purpose, that much was easily found by looking at the tears left behind on the spine of the book. John sat back in his chair.

London didn't have any fields of rye or corn or anything like that, so it was out of the question. "Sherlock, what if he's going to start targeting children?" John felt a stone settle in his Adam's apple and Sherlock finally made eye contact with his friend. The look in his eyes sent a chill up John's spine that he was not fond of. If he was going to target a child, John knew as well as Sherlock that unless they solved the puzzle, they could do nothing to stop it.

* * *

Fear. Desolation. Pain. The barrage of overwhelming shock rocked her body, flowing over every fiber of her very being. There was no way it could be reality- it simply couldn't. The flashing lights danced in her retinas, but Eponine could not even register the difference between the vibrant blue and alarming red lights. She didn't know when the blanket was placed over her shoulders, or when the hands pulled at her coat, suffocating her as though she weren't already starving of oxygen. They pulled her with such an airy force, she felt as though she were floating. The blonde hair slipped between her crimson palms, falling hard to the ground below where she had been only seconds before.

She did not know when they made her sit on the curb, or what she was being asked. All she could remember was the eyes- matching her own right down to the caramel center of the tiny oceans- staring at her. They couldn't possibly be the same eyes that lit up like fireworks when the two of them talked.

When the oxygen finally invaded her lungs, the burning sensation filling her insides, she felt the breath of life take her back into the harsh reality. Eponine could feel the painful glimmer of tears on her lashes, weighing them down like bricks at the bottom of the sea. They cascaded down her face, spilling onto her collarbone and tainting her skin with their poison. Her flesh was suddenly on fire, itching, and she wanted to shed the pale coat that protected her.

Even as she found herself sitting in the flat, a place she had called safe and home, Eponine could barely speak. It had been hours since her brother had—

She did not know how she got inside. She didn't know how the blood had been removed from the rosy skin of her hands and arms, the kiss of death rubbed from her face and throat, leaving behind faint red streaks. She didn't remember shedding the skin of her bloodstained shirt that she would never wear again, serpentine as she changed into her pajamas; or crawling onto the mattress, pulling the covers over her body as though they could protect her from the monsters beneath her bed or in the closet.

Eponine had not felt like a small child in quite some time, but in that very moment, she wanted nothing more than to escape the nightmares that lived in the shadows of what was once her sanctuary. The only person in the world who could have pat her head and whispered a lullaby was lying in the morgue beneath his own blanket.

The moonlight shot through the window, an arrow stabbing the darkness of her bedroom. She had been staring at the ceiling as long as she could remember. At first she had cried, allowed her eyes to empty their contents onto the sheets until they were too sore to rub and tears had been spent. Then she had counted: sheep and stars and little patterns on the wallpaper. Finally, lying motionless in the center of a bed that seemed foreign even though it had nested her every night, Eponine could do very little but mimic a fresh corpse, which in itself shot fear into her heart. The incident replayed in the forefront of her mind, vibrant and naked and so very _exposed_.

She could not fathom the idea of her brother jumping from the living room window and onto the street below. His eyes sparkled each and every morning, outshining the sun. She had heard, pretended not to, but had, the officers talking during a period where her brain was trying to regain the ability to function. Her teeth pressed hard against each other as she tried to ignore their accusations; that he was depressed from the war, suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and had taken his own life. But it simply wasn't true. Her fists balled, crushing the fabric of the sheets in the crevices of her fingers.

Her mind raced, unable to keep up with itself. As it spun, forcing her back and forth until she was sure she'd be sick, it came to a sudden, screeching halt as one thought crossed her mind and she landed on it, hard. She would call upon Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

John didn't remember falling asleep in his chair. When the sun struck him in the face, he felt his back shoot with pain as he stretched and stood up, accidentally knocking The Catcher in the Rye to the floor as he did. His eyes were weary and he saw Sherlock lying exactly where he had been only hours ago: on the couch, hands praying in front of him with eyes closed and that godawful blue dressing gown. John wondered for half a moment if Sherlock might have fallen asleep, but-

"Phone." Sherlock said boredly, barely acknowledging the ringing sound. John looked around at the mess they had made in their investigations the previous night, but the device was nowhere to be found. He listened and then realized that it was coming from the cushions beneath Sherlock.

"Sherlock," John stood next to the couch and watched as Sherlock reached under himself, withdrew the ringing phone, and held it out for John to take. He did so obediently, though it was, in fact, Sherlock's phone, answering without looking at the screen.

"John Watson." He answered, staring down at the other man.

"John?" Her voice was near a breaking point and as she realized who she was talking too, Eponine began to openly sob. John switched the phone to the other ear and, with a glance down at Sherlock, pushed into the kitchen. It, too, was littered with Sherlock's work, but John didn't notice as he stood in the center of the room.

"Eponine, what's wrong?" John kept his voice low as he talked to her, listening carefully. He barely understood what she was saying through the choking cries, the pitch of her voice escalating every few moments. She'd take time to collect herself, but as soon as she started to talk again, it just kept getting worse. Through the sounds of her shaking voice, John pieced together the bits that could be understood. _Last night.. Antony... Blood, concrete..._

"He's gone, John." By now, she had given up. John put his hand on his face, trying to understand what had happened.

"I'm so, so sorry..." John didn't know what to say. A tear fell from his eye as he listened to her cries from the other side of the telephone, an image of his old friend draining in the back of his mind. Something seemed to click as his face wrinkled in confusion. "Eponine, why did you call Sherlock?"

The end was quiet for a long time, aside from her frequent hiccups. "It wasn't a suicide, John. Antony would never leave me alone. Never in a million years." John sighed. He didn't quite believe it himself, though he was not so sure as Eponine seemed to be. "Please, John. I've felt like someone has been following me for a week now. Something just isn't right."

"John!" Sherlock called to him from the living room, a whining pitch in his baritone voice. John swallowed hard, unable to stand still.

"Get a cab to Baker street." Eponine thanked John and hung up the phone as he walked into the other room, debating how to tell Sherlock that his friend needed him, convinced Sherlock would reject the case. He didn't know if he could get Sherlock to take it, but at the very least, he had to comfort Eponine. The urgency in her voice had been apparent and he couldn't shake the sound of her crying out of his head.

Sherlock was already standing, opening the violin case on the table. He withdrew the instrument and its bow, walking delicately to the window. He might have looked elegant, if properly dressed. The began to play, eyes searching the outside world for answers. John left Sherlock to himself, padding up the steps to his own room to clean up, knowing Eponine was already on her way.


	6. Deductive Reasoning

She could hear the melody even through the frost of the windows. The door to 221B glared down at her, daring her to open it and see the mystery behind the cold panes of wood. Eponine didn't knock- rude, she knew. Somehow, the song that played behind the golden letters called out to her and she felt that if she were to interrupt it with a sound as crude as a knock, she might even scold herself. So her hand found the stone cold handle, pulled it open, and silently closed it behind her. Two staircases- one going up to the heavenly sound that reminded her with aching pain of Antony's records, the other going down into an abyss of darkness she knew was more than six feet deep.

She chose to go up, her hand gliding along the deep blue wallpaper, feeling the snags of character. The door at the top of the steps was wide open, though she wasn't surprised to find it so.

The flat smelled of mahogany and snow. Eponine could taste ashes on her tongue as her eyes searched the littered living room. Papers were thrown carelessly among the books and experimental inquiries, some of them old and forgotten, some new and enchanting.

Sherlock was standing with his back to her in front of the fireplace, his bow moving elegantly across the violin tucked between his chin and shoulder. Eponine smiled, standing still in the doorway and holding her breath as though the man could hear the beating of her heart if she let it go too fast.

"Are you going to keep standing there?" The piece came to an end and she found herself longing for the sweet sound, but it was replaced with Sherlock's droning voice as he turned back to face her. She nodded and stepped into the room, noting that John was not present.

Sherlock watched Eponine as she moved around the flat, avoiding his eye. She examined things that were trivial to anyone else- the antlers on the wall, curtains, peeling wallpaper. He could still see the streak of tears on her cheeks that she'd attempted to wipe away in vain. Something had happened, but he hadn't heard John on the phone, had barely registered that he'd gone into the kitchen. Sherlock put his bow and violin back in their case purposefully, taking extra care and time as he did so.

"Was I wrong?" He spoke with gaunt in his voice and Eponine's head whipped around to look at him. He stood up straight, closing the lid and waiting for her response.

"Sorry?" As she made eye contact with Sherlock, he saw her mouth twitch in discomfort before she tore her gaze away. It landed on the three books stacked carefully on the table. She picked up the one on top, carefully turning it over in her hands. _She knows it's important, _Sherlock's fleeting thoughts registered.

"When I deduced you yesterday, you didn't say anything was wrong. There's always something." He told her, watching her hands turn the pages of the book. She didn't answer him at first, her eyes reading the page in front of her. He noticed the smile form on her lips, but it was gone as soon as she realized he was waiting for an answer and she looked back up at him.

"I'm not too terrible at the cello." She answered, holding the book in her hands. Her left hand fumbled with the corner of the page that was opened and Sherlock deducted easily that it was her dominant hand. Her eyes fell back down and she closed the book before setting it back where she had drawn it from. "And I don't live with my brother anymore."

Sherlock said nothing as she wiped her eye with the heel of her palm, a fresh tear trying to escape. The sound of footsteps was heard from behind the girl as John came into the room in a fresh jumper and the sleep removed from his eyes.

"Eponine," John choked out, his arms coming around the small girl. She accepted it, returning the gesture. Sherlock moved his violin case and sat in his chair rather than be an uncomfortable spectator. John lead Eponine to the couch and sat beside her.

"You called my phone." Sherlock's sudden words attracted their attention and they fell silent. John debated how to get the conversation on the right foot- he hadn't even told Sherlock what had happened, not that he would really care on a personal level. But it mattered to Eponine, who fiddled with her hands. "Why?"

"My brother died last night." Eponine choked on her own words, refusing to look at his face. She was sure he would roll his eyes or let out a groan or shrug her off- which was not too inaccurate. "He was pushed out of a window."

"Suicide." Sherlock said plainly, watching for her reaction. It was a moment before she looked up at him, sincerity floating on the surface of her irises. There was a plain look of disbelief tugging the corners of her mouth down.

"I don't think so." Her voice was broken and she did not remove her gaze. Sherlock wanted to scoff, but her feeling toward the situation was so genuine that he almost felt sorry for her. He wondered briefly for a moment what he might feel if Mycroft had died, but the very idea seemed absurd. Instead, he allowed his hands to cross in his lap.

"Your brother just came home from the military, did he not?" Sherlock inquired, not having met the man himself. Eponine nodded, teeth biting absently on her lower lip as she silently begged him for help.

"He wasn't depressed, Mist- Sherlock." Eponine felt a tremendous weight on her shoulders as he stared her down, undoubtedly tearing her apart in his mind. She could almost feel the weight of his look crushing her heart into dust. "You'd know if you met him."

Sherlock's attention turned to his flatmate, who watched him with a plea in his eye. As much as he hated that look, he had to tear his gaze away as he got to his feet, smoothing out the fabric over his chest as he put his back to the poor girl.

"Terribly sorry, I can't help you." Was all he said, casting a look over his shoulder. He waited for her to call him a git or demand his services, but Eponine simply stared up at him with the suffering of rejection and loss radiating from her being.

"Sherlock!" John couldn't help but feel torn. He didn't know if he believed that Antony would jump from a window either, but he couldn't deny it being a possibility. Eponine needed comfort and that much John could give her, but Sherlock was on another case and was very picky about choosing them, so he knew better than to attempt a real argument. Eponine stood up, thanking him with a sad smile- "thanks for trying"- on her face.

Sherlock watched her glance down at the books on her way out, closing the door behind her the way a mother would leave the room of a sleeping child. John said nothing to Sherlock as he made his way into the kitchen, searching for a way to escape the situation that had erupted in the living room.

* * *

Regardless of his refusal to assist her, Sherlock saw Eponine's face more than once over the course of the next three weeks. She had been spending an increasing amount of time with John and was not bitter about his rejection. The doctor had gone over three days after her brother's death to help her arrange the funeral- had gone to that with her, which Sherlock had elected to miss- and had helped her pack Antony's belongings and store them in what had been his room. She didn't like being home much anymore, as it was too quiet and had stopped feeling like home.

If it weren't an obvious compatibility issue- that and John was dating another woman- he might have thought there was a romantic attachment between his only friend and the fragile girl. That was the wrong word, Sherlock decided as soon as his thoughts had processed it. She gradually began to smile more, laugh more and even spoke to Sherlock on a few occasions: they played Cluedo together, the three of them, and she was always Miss Scarlet; she had listened to him play violin and agreed with him on his opinions of crap telly. In short, Eponine had found a place on the Baker street couch, though Sherlock accepted her presence with hesitancy.

There had been no more murders within those weeks, to which the three were glad, but Sherlock was no closer to catching the murderer than he had been before. There were no motives for the deaths and John thought that maybe it were similar to the Study in Pink- victims chosen at random. It might have been true, but it didn't help their case and soon Sherlock had dismissed it as nothing, taking on new challenges which John blogged about and Eponine watched over. She hadn't gone with them to a crime scene- she always had excuses not to go, even though John had offered her a place to sit between them in the cab. They were hallow excuses, but neither John nor Sherlock made a point to call her out on them. It was too soon for her, after washing Antony's blood from her hands, seeing another lost life wasn't in the cards for her just yet.

It was ten o'clock in the morning when Eponine met Mrs. Hudson for their morning shows. She had taken a liking to the older woman, who would rant about the two boys (mostly Sherlock) even though she loved them as sons. The shows were sitcoms that Eponine couldn't care less about, but Sundays were boring and she always had them off, and Mrs. Hudson made good company. The woman never pried into her personal affairs and had listened to her cry more times than she felt she could ever pay back. So the television blared horrible acting and ten-cent plots while Eponine sat in the chair beside the old woman, her feet tucked under her in the way she liked to sit and Mrs. Hudson talked about one of the old ladies that lived a short block away.

"John!" The door slamming open and then closed again shook the wall that separated 221A and 221B, causing Eponine and Mrs. Hudson to jump and look at one another. "John!" Sherlock's voice rang through the whole building, but a sense of urgency filled his voice. They listened as he half-ran up the steps to the flat. Eponine stood up, grabbing her coat from the back of her chair.

"John's at the clinic, better go see what's so important." Eponine told the old woman, shaking her head with a soft smile.

"I'll be seeing you later, dear, and do tell those boys to clean up will you? The likes of that place..." Mrs. Hudson grinned back and the two women shared a small chuckle at the expense of the males. Eponine suffered the outrageous late-November frost for the moment it took to walk into the flat next door. She went in, hands buried in her pockets, in a huff.

"Sherlock, stop yelling, they can hear you clear across London!" Eponine reached the top of the steps, not noticing the miniscule drops of blood staining the dark steps. When the smell of iron met her nose, Eponine felt the muscles in her limbs tense as she stepped into the flat and swallowed, praying silently to herself that he just had a nose bleed.

She was almost correct and felt herself relax when she found him in the kitchen, a cloth pressed to his lip. Blood ran tediously over his fingers and he was doing no good fixing it. He looked worse for wear, his button up shirt torn on the sleeve, his coat discarded on the floor on his way to clean himself up. When he saw her in the door, the cloth came away from his mouth.

"Where's John?" A fresh ooze of blood escaped the tear on his lip and Eponine's teeth bared as she fought back a wince.

"He's working. He's got a job, you know." She crossed the room, extracting a cold pack from the freezer, ignoring the frozen teeth that rest next to it, and took the cloth from his hand. "Keep this on it. If you have peroxide you might try that too." She wrapped the cloth around the pack and handed it back to him. Sherloc took it wordlessly, pressing it against the tender flesh of his lips.

"This _is _John's job." He spoke more to himself than to her. Eponine leaned against the refrigerator and watched him as he attempted to roll up his sleeves with one hand. She laughed and took over that job, too.

"Could say thanks." She offered with a smile. Sherlock eyed her.

"Thank you." His words were as hallow as her excuses, but she accepted it, leaving Sherlock to his own devices as she made her way back into the next room. He followed cautiously after her. She put on her coat, paying no attention to the man lingering in the doorway to the kitchen. Turning to look at him, Eponine soaked in the full sight of one Sherlock Holmes. An ice pack against his cracked lip was one thing, but as she looked at him- really looked- she could see the damage he had endured. With his sleeves rolled up, she could see minor scars lining his pale skin, faint reminders of attacks over the many years of his profession. They were miniscule, but she couldn't help feel that he, in his own way, was a soldier- just as Antony had been.

"Your job is dangerous, isn't it?" She said finally, feeling Sherlock's eyes bore into her as he waited for her to stop staring at him. He dropped the ice pack, allowing himself further into the room. He seemed to study her for a long moment and recalled having a similar conversation with John Watson, which ended immediately with the two going on their first ever case together. The memory was stored back in his mind palace as he stopped a short distance from Eponine.

"Incredibly." He answered slowly, enunciating each syllable delicately. Her eyes seemed to shine, looking up at him with her head tilted to the side.

"Does it ever scare you?" Her question seemed to catch him off guard and his eyes opened just a fragment for only a split second, but she had seen. Sherlock cursed himself and tried to answer her question, but his mind was drawing a blank slate. Brows furrowed, he shook his head once.

"What does that even mean?" Eponine just shrugged.

"All the times someone comes asking you to help them, do you ever go out that door wondering if you'll come back?" There was no arrogance in her voice. She lacked the rudeness or accusing tone that Sherlock had heard from anyone who questioned his motives. Eponine waited patiently as his thoughts raced, trying to comprehend his own feelings. He didn't like that sort of thing and he had only been truly afraid once- in Baskerville- and even then it was not his own emotions driving him. But with Eponine's question, Sherlock faced new realizations that he wasn't sure he even wanted to have. What if he did walk out the door and never came back? He supposed that in those moments, if he knew for sure that he wouldn't be returning, he would know if there was some kind of fear surging through his body. Never before had he considered the possibility of death, and even if it had crossed his mind he would have waved it away.

"Part of the job." He answered plainly, mimicking her shrug. Eponine nodded, content with his answer.

She finished buttoning up her coat and looked back at Sherlock with a glow in her eye. Sherlock had seen it before: it was there in John's eyes when Sherlock had asked for his assistance on a case and had reappeared since then in every moment the duo had run through the streets of London, been shot at, chased, kidnapped... It was the thrill of living.

"I'd like to go with you, someday, if you'd take me." Eponine tied the belt of her coat around her waist and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear before jamming her hands back into her pockets. Sherlock allowed the twitch of a smirk to paint itself on his face, forgetting about the break in his lips. He winced at the pain, but Eponine grinned back at him. Sherlock opened the door for her, one hand behind his back.

"Only if you don't say or do anything stupid. Or blog about it." He gave her a nod as she passed through the door, pausing on the other side.

"I'll do my best, but I can't promise to do anything better than average." Eponine laughed and gave a small wave to the detective as he closed the door behind her.

She had to admit, walking down the steps toward the street, that life had been slightly more exciting with Sherlock in it. She hadn't chased criminals or gone undercover or so much as looked for clues, but all the same the stories filled her with excitement just the same as any novel could have. She'd known for some time that she hadn't been living, but simply existing, and now Eponine had the chance. She could live a life she had only ever dreamed of: helping people, solving crimes and filling her soul with excitement. And suddenly, morbid as it sounded, she couldn't wait for the next murder or kidnapping or impossible theft. She would be ready.

* * *

_okay, i know this chapter seems to ignore the story, but bare with me, i promise it's for a reason. we'll be revisiting the Books case and Antony's death very soon, but some time has passed with the murders unsolved and the boys are just starting to get closer to Eponine. The next chapter will bring back the case, so be ready!_


	7. Confession

John was sitting in his chair, reading the papers- an article about Sherlock, as a matter of fact- when she came for them. The knock on the door was urgent and even Sherlock strode to the window to see what was the matter. He peered beyond the cool pane of glass, squinting his eyes as John dropped the paper onto the table and got to his feet.

"Eponine." He said, watching her waver as she waited for John. Sherlock spotted something in her hand and she fiddled with it, glancing down at it as though it were a bomb, ready to go off in any given moment. The door opened and she vanished inside as Sherlock turned away from the window. Whatever had brought her there that morning- the object she carried, no doubt- was important. He heard her footsteps as she raced up the steps ahead of John, having shoved her way past him.

"Sherlock," She breathed. Her fingers were numb and cheeks tinted pink as she came to a dead stop in the living room, a fire in her lungs. He gave her his attention, eyes falling to the object in her hand as she caught her breath. "You need to see this." She held the object out carefully as though it might sting her and Sherlock glanced down at it.

It was a book.

More specifically, it was _the_ book. The Holy Bible presented itself in her hand, a worn black cover with a green tint, tiny cracks revealing the tan hide beneath the leather. Gold letters stood out against it, shining against the dark cover as Sherlock took it from her hand, the tips of his fingers gently gliding across the back of Eponine's knuckles. Sherlock ignored the slight motion of her digits flinching as he touched her and brought the book closer, turning it over in his hands. He stored her reaction to his touch in a closet of the mind palace, to be investigated when less detrimental issues were at hand.

"Where did you find this?" Sherlock ran a finger down the spine and was convinced that it was just a book, but something did feel quite off about it. It didn't weigh nearly as much as he thought it should, and his suspicions were confirmed when he opened the cover, finding the center had been carved out in the shape of an upside-down cross. He frowned, but his attention was captured by thin, scrawled writing on the inside of the cover.

_To my dearest son, with love._

"It was Antony's." Eponine answered. John put his hand on her shoulder, causing her to jump and her head to whip around to face him. She swallowed hard and John handed her a steaming cup. When had he made it? "I woke up this morning and it was on my bedside table. That book was in Antony's room with his belongings, Sherlock. I never touched it."

Sherlock showed no signs of surprise at this confession. "My apologies." He said plainly, finally looking Eponine in the eye. Shock registered on her face and she didn't seem to understand as he grabbed his coat from the rack, swinging it over his shoulders. John followed suit and Eponine waited as her heart begin to thunder in her chest. This time, she was going with them- she didn't care where they were going or what was going to happen, she knew whatever it was, Sherlock knew what he was doing and something was bound to happen. Something always happened when Sherlock was around. The three of them bound out of the flat as Sherlock pulled out his phone, sent a text, and stuffed it in his pocket while he hailed a cab.

"What did you say?" Eponine asked, sliding in after the detective. John shut the door behind them as Sherlock rattled off an address.

"When you came to me about your brother, I dismissed your case. I didn't realize until now that he was a victim of our library killer." Sherlock made eye contact with the small girl between him and the doctor.

"You mean Antony was the fourth victim? _The Catcher in the Rye_?" John began to piece it together in his head and realization crossed his face and he let out a low, drawn out "oh." Eponine looked between the men, completely lost to what they had to say. "He left the book on Eponine's table because-"

"He couldn't leave it at the crime scene. Not with her standing right there." Sherlock finished as the cab stopped. The three crawled out and Eponine took in the sights around them. The building soared above them, two towers climbing into the sky on either side of the dome. Sherlock lead them toward Saint Paul's Cathedral, eyeing everyone they passed with heightened suspicion. _"I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff_." He recited perfectly, not stopping as they entered the giant building.

"So you think the Bible is the next book?" John looked around as they stalked through the building rather casually, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb anyone. "You texted Lestrade, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded. "He's looking at every major church in the area for any sign of something amiss." As the three paused in the doorway to one of the many sanctuaries in the biggest church in London, they began to separate, looking for any sign of foul play. Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket. He withdrew it, glanced at the screen and cursed under his breath. "We're too late." Sherlock's voice was glazed with disappointment, eyes hard and stoic. He turned on his heel, practically fleeing from the building with Eponine and John on his heels.

"He's upset." Eponine remarked as the November air licked at her cheeks for the third time already that day.

"Contrary to popular belief," John began, the duo trying to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. "Sherlock isn't a machine. Whenever he fails- which does happen, by the way, even though he won't admit it... He beats himself up about it for days. It's someone else he wasn't able to save."

Eponine came to stand next to John as they finally caught up to Sherlock and she watched the detective as he hailed a cab for them (or at least, attempted to.) John was right, Eponine discovered. Though a thick layer of frost coated the iris of the dark haired man, the feeling of failure was not hidden from the line of his mouth or the way he held his shoulders, rigid and defensive. Someone else had died before the case was solved.

Sherlock felt disappointment rest in his ribcage as he climbed wordlessly into the cab. This time, the case was not about boredom or proving his capabilities. People had been dying while he was unable to stop the man who was stealing their souls and devouring them. Sherlock had no idea who was to blame for the deaths, so he planted the weight on the shoulders of the one man in the world who could have stopped it: himself. And he feared, as he watched the world roll by the window in a passing glance, that he would shrug. Although he had been right about going to a church, he hadn't gotten them there sooner. Was it because Eponine hadn't come early enough?

He caught her in his peripherals. It was in her, too. The blame had settled in her throat and he could tell tears were begging to escape her downcast eyes, but he knew instantly that no, she wasn't at fault. She had been panting before she had even run up the steps, an obvious sign that she hadn't waited for a cab: she had run all the way to Baker street. Her coat hadn't been buttoned, suggesting that she had put it on as an afterthought before braving the cold. Had that afterthought cost another person their life? Sherlock doubted it. Eponine looked up, feeling Sherlock's eyes on her face.

"It's not your fault." Her voice was barely a whisper and Sherlock had to strain to hear her. He felt his lungs give way as he was forced to accept a breath of air. He cleared his throat and looked away from her. She watched him for a moment longer as the cab slowed down by the sidewalk outside the church Lestrade had lead them to. John climbed out of the opposite side and Sherlock opened his door, but Eponine's hand on his shoulder stopped him. She hadn't used any real force, but the light weight on his jacket had frozen him. The touch was familiar yet so strange at the same time and he found himself compelled to hear her words. The cold air filled the back of the cab as Sherlock left the door open, his eyes flickering to watch John as he approached Lestrade, who was standing at the wide-open door of the church with his hands in his pockets. The two men cast looks at the cab, but neither of them called out to the two in the cab despite the confusion on their faces.

"I know that look, Sherlock. Don't tell me you don't feel guilty." Eponine breathed, her fingers curling over the bone of his shoulder. He could practically feel her heart through the extremity. "I can see your heart in your eyes and they are heavy. I've seen the same guilt the mirror every day since Antony died. There's nothing you could have done. Whoever is laying in that church was dead long before either of us woke up this morning."

Sherlock didn't take the time to argue, though he and Eponine both knew it would have been a feeble attempt at lying, as he climbed out of the cab, his chin held high as he made a B-line for the door and vanished into the church. Eponine watched him as she closed the door behind her and the cab took off into the fog that was beginning to roll over the streets of London.

* * *

Eponine had been right. The dead man lay in front of the relatively small church and John confirmed the fact: he had been killed sometime last night by a slit throat, the same manner of death as the library victim. The man was dressed in a black button up and matching trousers, a once-white collar wrapped around his neck.

"A priest." John stated simply. The man's arms were crossed over his chest, laying perfectly on his back in front of a large, bronze colored statue of Jesus Christ upon the cross. Eponine shivered as the red light through the stained glass windows glinted on the pennies covering the Father's eyes.

"Richard Defreus. Unmarried. Friendly, perhaps too friendly." Sherlock stood up from the body, having found very little of use. Almost the moment he walked away from the body, forensics were picking the pennies to take for fingerprints. Sherlock's eyes scanned the walls of the church and he was cursing to himself. Eponine squinted through the red, yellow and blue lights that fell through the colored glass that depicted Mary on the east side of the building, trying to follow Sherlock's line of sight. "Of course he wouldn't have gone to Saint Paul. This church is small, virtually unknown. No cameras." Sherlock's brain seemed to be whizzing at a hundred miles an hour. The guilt in his eyes was replaced with exasperation and a hint of excitement. Eponine watched him duck down to the floor, peering between the pews for anything that might have been left behind, a red light spilling across his face as he moved.

As they finished at the crime scene, turning up nothing of much use, Eponine could see the desperation on Sherlock's face. It was more evident as he slammed the cab door, and then the one to his flat, even before John and Eponine had a chance to step onto the sidewalk. There had been very few cases that Sherlock had ever failed, and it didn't take a mind as brilliant as his to see how deeply it was brewing in his stomach.

"Listen, Eponine." John held the door open for her, ushering her in from the cold and locking the door behind them as they padded up the steps. Sherlock was already playing his violin by the time they had spilled into the room, shoes squeaking as the snow on the souls came in contact with the wooden floor. "Maybe you should stay here a few days."

"Why?" Her voice showered innocence and she stopped in the center of the room. John sighed, scratching the back of his neck.

"Whoever left that book on your table had to have done it while you were sleeping. It's not safe there anymore." John didn't bother asking the violinist if it was alright with him, though he didn't miss Eponine's eyes flicker to Sherlock's broad back and back to John's face. She didn't argue, but nodded as a sharp note emanated through the air, causing the two of them to cover their ears in protest. Sherlock had stopped playing, his bow resting gently on the strings of his violin. As his cold eyes found the faces of the other two occupants of the room, John felt an argument boiling to the surface, readying himself for a row that he was not about to lose. But it didn't come.

"Take her to get a few personals. I'll have Mrs. Hudson prepare dinner." Sherlock stated simply. John was taken aback, but nodded. Eponine looked over her shoulder as John ushered her out the door ("Might as well do it while it's still light out.") and she could have sworn she saw a flicker of doubt cross the hard stone of Sherlock Holmes' face.

* * *

As soon as they returned, Eponine noticed the stillness of the flat. Sherlock was no where to be found, but his coat remained where he had discarded it and she and John guessed he must have been in his room, perhaps even visiting his mind palace. John turned on the telly and gave Eponine one of his pillows. She brought her own blanket- one of sentimental value, Sherlock would later deduce. It was wrapped around her like a security blanket. The lights remained off, the blue-grey buzz of the television illuminating the small space around them. Eponine tried rather hard to focus until she heard the snooze of John, his head lolled to the side and his mouth agape. She smiled and stood up, carefully avoiding hitting her knee on the table as she had already done three times that evening. After some maneuvering, she found the collection of DVDs she had snatched on her way out the door and was thankful that she knew herself so well. Finding something at least mildly entertaining, she put _Silence of the Lambs_ into the player and allowed the film to run.

"Tell me about your brother." His voice was low, directly above her head. Eponine was not surprised that Sherlock was there, dressed in the same blue gown he had worn when they first met, and pajama bottoms. Her brows furrowed at his request as John let out a loud snore, which earned him a glance from Eponine and Sherlock. When Eponine didn't answer for a moment, Sherlock skidded between her and the mess of a table and sat beside her on the couch, pulling the robe closer to his body for warmth. "Your brother was a victim, I need to know if there's any reason someone might have wanted to kill him. If he had enemies, who his friends were." Sherlock remained relatively quiet, considerate of the sleeping John. He knew it had been days since John had gotten a good night's sleep, his days filled with working at the clinic and nights exchanged for helping Sherlock.

Eponine bit her lip, staring at the screen but not really seeing what was happening. Sherlock waited in silence, knowing (_I didn't know, I saw_) that she would answer soon. The music and dialog of the film filled in the silence, though it was rather quiet and neither of them really heard anything but their own thoughts anyway.

"He was a great man." Eponine started. Sherlock resisted the urge to smirk or scoff. He hadn't known the man personally, or even seen his body after his death. He was kicking himself for that tidbit now. The man had to have something, Sherlock knew. A reason for someone to shove him out of the window of his own home and allowing him to die at his sister's feet. Whoever killed him had no mercy.

"He was kind. Like John, but he didn't have lots of friends. He didn't need them." Eponine's lip twitched at her brother's memory. Sherlock could feel the sentiment radiate from her lips and she blinked, regaining focus on her task. "He was a bit like you, too. He didn't have lots of friends, but the ones he had, he would have died for."

Sherlock blinked. Her accusation was purely absurd. No, she was right that he didn't have many friends. He had John and as far as he was concerned he didn't need anyone else. Acquaintances were another story: Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly.. And Eponine, he decided. She was relatively smart, he guessed. Nothing special, but she was kind, had a good heart, and he wasn't appalled at the idea of her sleeping on his couch if it meant insuring her safety.

… Was she his friend?

"I'm afraid I can't help you much." Her words tore Sherlock's mind from the issue he'd made up in his mind and he blinked yet again. "The only person he's ever hurt is the girl he broke up with a few months ago, but I'm afraid she lives in Leeds."

"What was her name?" Sherlock felt euphoria and thought perhaps that he might have a lead. Eponine smiled, seeing the excitement spread through him as he sat up just a bit straighter.

"Lucy McAllistor. She was nice, too, I think." Eponine rest her chin on her knee, arms wrapped around her legs with the blanket pulled around her like an extra layer of skin. Sherlock was on his feet before she had a chance to ask if he wanted to watch the rest of the movie with her. She sighed as he vanished into his room, no doubt to see if he could find out something about Lucy. He vanished in a whirlwind, the door closing behind him and leaving Eponine to herself. She turned her attention back to the film, feeling the loneliness of the room seep into her skin.

* * *

In the film, Eponine watched as Clarice walked around the cage that housed Hannibal Lector. He was sitting stoic in the center, reading a book. The psychotic, intelligent cannibal that he was, his feet were propped on the table and he knew without looking up that Clarice was stalking around the bars, watching him. His body was still, yet there was an air of calmness around him. Eponine didn't so much as breathe.

"Did Jack Crawford send you for one last wheedle before you're both booted off the case?" His statement was a matter of fact, though Clarice showed no evidence of faltering.

"No, I came because I wanted to." There was an air of superiority in Clarice's voice as she stared him down, even as he refused her gaze. A sly smirk cross Hannibal's lips and he lowered the book in his hand for the first time since she appeared outside his barrier. A wild look passed through his eye as he found her without really trying, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His voice was smooth, teeth grindingly so, loaded with sarcasm and sent a shiver through the screen and up Eponine's spine.

"People will say we're in love."


	8. The Fifth

She was encased in the blanket like a piece of glass on the couch when Sherlock found her the next morning, buttoning the ends of his purple shirt. John was no where to be found, but there was a kettle of tea that had cooled down waiting for him. Sherlock silently thanked John as he sipped on the cup- black, two sugars- allowing the liquid to slide easily down his throat as his eyes fell on her sleeping form for the second time that morning.

She was the epitome of a hard sleeper: hair disheveled with pieces hanging over her face and wrapped around her neck. Her lips were partly open and she looked incredibly uncomfortable. In her sleep, Sherlock could see the abrupt swivel of her eyes beneath the soft lids as she began to rise to the surface of a nightmare. He rolled his eyes, picking up the Bible that had been fallen to the floor. She'd been looking at it last night, he deduced easily. Her hand hung over the side of the couch and it had fallen from between her fingers. Sherlock's brows knit together, trying to figure out the answer to yet another question that had plagued his mind after returning from the church.

Why hadn't the murderer left another book at the church?

He'd noticed immediately. The first thing he had searched for upon walking into the building was a book: something that wasn't religious, he guessed. No hymn books or biblical stories. It would have been obvious, but he hadn't seen any books anywhere.

He was no closer to the discovery of who might have been responsible for the deaths. Lucy McAllistor was still in Leeds and had a perfect alibi- she had been attending a wedding at the time of Antony's death and it wasn't possible for her to have been anywhere near London. Sherlock had been disappointed a this, so much so that he had taken to watching crap telly just to get his mind off of it. Eponine had been amused as he narrated all of the factual issues to her and John just told Sherlock to shut up- more than once.

Sherlock paid no attention to the movement on the couch as Eponine began to wake up, her arms moving slowly at first as she began to stretch out, rolling slightly. A yelp escaped her as she landed hard on the floor next to the couch, the blanket snaking around her legs. She blinked as though realizing where she was and sat up straight, pulling her hands through the knots of her hair. Without a word, she pushed the blankets away and vanished into the bathroom, grabbing one of her bags along the way, ignoring Sherlock as he sat in his chair, one leg crossed over the other.

As she emerged, she had changed clothes and was pulling her hair into a pony tail. Sherlock glanced at her, laughter lightly kissing his lips as he tried to be decent about her lack of coordination upon waking. The blanket had trailed after her, discarded alone on the floor. "Morning."

"Morning." She returned, turning her rose colored cheeks away from him. Eponine padded toward the door and began to dress for the outside weather. Sherlock did not need to ask to know she had to work that day and didn't stop her, considering that her work was only down the street. He supposed, as she bid him farewell and told him to call if he needed anything, though he doubted he'd ever need anything from her, that he could go to the diner for lunch- at least that way he could tell John he'd kept an eye on her.

Sherlock stood up nearly an hour later, having barely moved from his position after the door had fallen closed and he was left to himself. He strode through the flat swiftly, the Bible in hand, fingering the pages absently. His eyes landed once more on the swirling letters on the inside cover of the extensive novella, studying the handwriting keenly. It was his mother's, clearly, with elegant lettering of a woman of patience. He wondered vaguely what became of Eponine's mother- rather she was alive and where she was living. If she was, she wasn't living in London. Eponine had never made a move to go visit either of her parents since Antony's death. Maybe the relationship between them was hardened, but he couldn't imagine a person in the world Eponine might have disliked.

Sherlock sat down in his chair, finally, his index and middle finger tracing the inside of the carved out cross. He turned the pages carefully, peeling them apart with dexterity and read a few of the words that still lingered on the thin paper.

Boredom did not happen to Sherlock by surprise. It walked into the room with a gradual stroll, not bothering to sneak up on him the way it tended to do to the average man. No, Sherlock hadn't spared a single moment as soon as boredom paid him a visit. He tossed the book against the wall to his left. It hit, thudding solidly before it landed on the couch where Eponine had rest her head. His fingers tapped mercilessly on the arm of his chair and he groaned before pulling himself to his feet.

* * *

The air held a distinct smell of cinnamon, floating at the rim of Eponine's nostrils as she bustled about the house of the diner. A hot plate balanced on her arm, she grinned at the couple sitting in the corner booth they had taken as their own on a regular basis. They thanked her, pulling the food toward them.

"Let me know if you need anything." She gave a short nod, skirting around another waitress and wiping her greased palms on the front of her apron. A sigh escaped her and she pushed back into the kitchen. Ben was there and he caught her eye as he dried his hands on a towel he kept tucked into the front pocket of his khakis.

"You look exhausted." He let out a chuckle as she approached him, leaning on the prepping counter and glaring up at him. Ben failed to waver under her gaze as she broke her facade with the slightest of smiles.

"I could roll over dead." Eponine groaned. Ben shook his head and gave a nod at the swinging door that led from the front counter to the kitchen. A woman stood there waving at Eponine with pursed lips.

"You got another table, Ep." She barked briefly before fleeing from the back kitchen. Eponine's lips deepened into a frown.

"I've already got three." She wined. Ben shrugged as she walked away from him, holding her finger up to her head and pulling a metaphorical trigger before finding her way to her section. As she rounded the separating wall, she nearly tripped as her eyes found the dark, curling hair of the man sitting with his back to her. She shook her head with disbelief as she stopped next to the table and folded her arms over her chest. He looked up at her, feigning a small smile as though he had no idea who she was.

"What are you doing here?" Her brow rose, but Sherlock could read the laughter in her voice.

"Tea for me, thanks." He turned the page of the menu in his hands and she nearly snorted. A glint of amusement spiked through his eye as she looked around, weary of the other tables casting her disapproving looks.

"Sherlock, you don't eat on cases. At least not willingly." Eponine licked her lips and tilted her head to the side. Sherlock handed the menu to her, which she took slowly before going to get him a cuppa. She brought it back, sliding it toward him. He took it with a nod, but continued to watch her as she checked on her other tables. As she came back his way, she stopped just as he sat the cup back down on the table gently. He had been watching the other guests, as well as the waitresses and busters, as they interacted with Eponine and each other. They were all terribly boring, but nonetheless at least he wasn't stuck in the flat staring at the four books that had, as of late, been causing him so much greif.

"I can bring you another if you like." Eponine gestured at the cup, but Sherlock waved his hand through the air, dismissing her. She shrugged and looked out the window, following his serene gaze.

"Sit." He told her finally, giving a stiff nod at the booth across from him. She glanced at the seat and then at the bar, where Ben poured a glass of whiskey for an elderly man, before slowly sliding into the seat. He waited for her shoulders to relax and eyes to stop darting in fear of getting in trouble before he leaned forward, elbows on the table and hands beneath his chin. "There's got to be something else. Something you didn't tell me about your brother."

Eponine's mind surfed as she tried to recall anyone that Antony had ever made an enemy of. Sherlock watched her eyes scan back and forth across the table as though she were reading a book. Her left thumb subconsciously came to her teeth, which she gnawed on. After a few moments, her hand dropped back into her lap and her eyes finally met his. Sherlock could almost hear her speaking her thoughts in his head and he sat back against the booth, foot tapping in his anxiety.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I honestly don't know." Her voice shook,eyes falling down to the surface of the table in front of her. The detective's brows knit together in confusion.

"You're disappointed." He told her plainly. She laughed dryly.

"Of course I am. I haven't been useful to you at all, no matter how hard I try." Eponine's honesty shredded through her words and Sherlock felt a pang of pity for her in his stomach. "Please believe me, if I had any idea who would want to kill Antony I'd have told you. He was family- I loved him."

"There must be someone who wanted to kill him. Any other exes, friends turned enemies, family..." Sherlock's teeth pressed in the back of his jaw as he tried to focus on Eponine's face, reading her expressions as she spoke, knowing fully well that she could never be a good enough liar to outwit him.

"If he did, I never knew about it, and he told me everything. At least I thought he did. God, he could have lied straight to my face and I would have never known. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I just don't know." Eponine swallowed tears that stung the corners of her eyes. Sherlock frowned.

There were seventeen pantomimes a man could do that would give away he was lying; there were twenty for women. She hadn't licked her lips, talked at a different pace than normal, given abnormal gestures, touched her face or even denied looking him in the eye. Sherlock was disappointed to learn, based on her lack of these details, that she was telling the complete truth. She couldn't help him any more than she already had, and even that wasn't much.

"You're also incredibly cruel to yourself." He spoke plainly as though it were a fact that everyone knew, but Eponine appeared surprised to hear such a fact. "And not useless." The last words came as an afterthought, but brought a smile to her face just as a woman yelled at her to get up and do her job. She muttered a quick apology and was on her feet, taking Sherlock's cup to the back kitchen. He watched her retreat with haste, his mind racing in circles.

She was incredibly ordinary. He knew all the basic facts about her, learned them in the first day of meeting her, that he thought he would ever need to know. The more time she spent at his flat- rather it was for her protection, playing Cluedo, watching crap telly or making sure Sherlock ate at least once every other day- the more Sherlock learned. It wasn't much, if he was perfectly honest. But it was enough to know that she was more than he had originally believed. She was kind of heart and was not completely idiotic, but there was something else buried in Eponine that Sherlock had only ever been introduced to by John: his flat mate, his working partner, his only friend.

She cared for him.

Not just in the way others had. Molly, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were close, he figured. They cared, but they had never looked him in the eye and stolen away the negativity buried in his chest and head. She was incredibly ordinary, but not in the slightest bit useless to him. She had helped him in a way that only John had ever accomplished before.

They were friends, he decided vaguely, slipping the note for his tea under a salt shaker, tightening the scarf around his neck and sliding out the door before Eponine returned to the house. He left the Canteen with his head bowed against the wind, hiding the slight smile that graced his lips.

He had two friends.

* * *

Eponine walked through the darkness of London with her hands tucked into her pockets, moving at a slower pace than she had ever been used to. Ben walked beside her, having refused to let her go home alone after hearing that a murderer had broken into the house. She had told him about it rather shortly, needing someone outside of John and Sherlock to talk to. He threw an arm around her as they turned the corner, venturing further away from Baker street.

"You sure you should go back there?" Ben sounded unconvinced as they reached the street where Eponine lived. She walked up to her flat, refusing to look at the place Antony had died, unlocking the door and slipping inside with Ben right behind her. The room was dark and she flicked the light on, allowing her eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness as it surrounded her. The door closed behind them and Eponine felt the cold chill of being watched crawl back up her spine. Her eyes roamed the living space cautiously as she moved through the dust covered home.

"I just need to get a couple of movies and a razor so I can shave my legs." She sighed, putting her keys on the table as she pushed open the bedroom door. "I've watched all the ones I brought already and-" She stopped as she flicked the light switch, her breath caught in her lungs. She felt like she was drowning, suffocating in a swarm of water where no one could hear her screams.

"Eponine?" Ben looked toward her, where she stood stalk still and silent. He put down the Rubick's cube he had swiped off of her coffee table and came to stand behind her, looking over her should to see what was the matter.

A wrapped package sat in the center of Eponine's bed. It was relatively square in shape, a slight bit longer in one direction than the others, surrounded in standard brown paper and tied together with a brown chord. Eponine shook in her place and her eyes found the very open window, the curtains dancing in the night wind.

"Call Sherlock." Her voice was strained and she tried to keep composure as Ben took the phone out of the pocket of her coat, found Sherlock's number and called the detective for her. Eponine remained rooted to her spot, fear gripping her heart as the two waited for the consulting detective and his doctor to arrive.

* * *

"You should have come home!" Needless to say, John was furious. Eponine refused to look him in the eye when he and Sherlock stormed into the home. John called Lestrade to have him send forensics- maybe there were fingerprints or something on the window, he didn't know, but he had called to report it nonetheless. Sherlock was convinced they would find nothing (which, of course, proved correct) and they were wasting time. "What if he had still been here? You could have gotten killed!"

"I'm sorry, alright?" Eponine was exasperated, her voice raising with frustration as she squared up against the doctor. John felt his heart soften as a tear fell from the corner of her eye, but he was not letting his guard fall so easily. She needed protection and John made sure she understood that. Eponine's heart jolted as she spotted a bit of Antony in John's kind eyes. He was only trying to keep her safe.

"I had Ben with me-"

"You're an idiot if you think he could have protected you." Sherlock interjected, picking up the package gently in his hand. He already knew what was inside, but he inspected the packaging just the same as the other two bickered. Ben stood a bit away from them, looking between them all nervously. "The murderer is intelligent and you're both morons. He would have killed you both just as easily as he's done his victims."

Eponine fell silent and watched Sherlock. He had undone the chord around the package, but his focus was not on the object that intruded her home. The tall, dark haired man was standing rather stoic, his eyes trailing over Ben, who refused to meet his gaze. Sherlock tore his eyes away from the bartender and spared Eponine a glance, who met him with confusion. He said nothing, clearing his throat as he carefully peeled the brown paper from the contents within.

Eponine and John tensed visibly as the paper fell to the floor at Sherlock's feet. His kaleidoscope eyes floated over the cover of the book that rest heavily in his hands. He felt his stomach plummet before surging back up and into his throat.

"Is that..." John trailed off, looking from the book to Eponine's paled face. No one said a word as the front door opened. They didn't bother looking at Lestrade as he appeared behind them, looking rather confused by the silence that filled the guts of the house.

"What is it?" The DI asked, nodding toward the object of interest. As Sherlock held the cover up for Lestrade to see, the older man's brows furrowed for a moment before realization struck him. His mouth gaped open and soon, every pair of eyes in the room had fallen on Eponine, but she only saw the crystalline, gold freckled and sedated ones that belonged to the man who was keeping her safe. Sherlock held her gaze even as he opened the crisp pages of the book, noting that the spine did not crack as he did so. _So_, he thought, _it's been read, or at least opened, before._

He could read the terror in her dilated retinas, so widely so that he could make out his own reflection in the darkness of them. They screamed in desperation, begging to be put out of their misery. Eponine's skin had drained and he thought for a moment that she may have forgotten how to breathe. Sherlock tore his eyes away from her haunted face and looked down at the random page he had chosen. His own breath hitched, but he was not surprised at what he found.

The fears of every being in the room were confirmed the moment Sherlock's eyes landed on the single word that had been crossed out with a felt pen. There it was, over and over, no matter what page he had turned to- the same word, a single line of ink dragged carefully through each of the seven letters every time it appeared.

No one need say a word as Sherlock slowly closed the book in his hands, stalking carefully toward the terrified girl. He didn't so much as blink, deciding against sharing what he had seen in the pages of the book with the traumatized girl or John, who would surely panic upon knowing what Sherlock had just discovered. He peered down at her, soaking in the pleading look in her eye. _God help me, _he could hear her voice echo in his head, even though no words had graced her lips. _Please, Sherlock._ He shoved the lullaby out of his head and swallowed the stone in Eponine's throat for her.

"Take her back to Baker street," He spoke to John, but he watched Eponine like a hawk. Or, perhaps, the way an angel would watch over a child. Sherlock might have laughed at the idea if the air wasn't so poisoned with the threat looming over their heads. John slowly dragged himself into reality and processed Sherlock's words as he spoke. "Don't let her out of your sight." Sherlock's voice was eerily calm, strangely gentle, but there was a force behind it that no one could quite process. John took Eponine's elbow and she allowed him to move her, but she kept her eyes on the book in Sherlock's hand until she was forced to turn her back, not hearing John as he assured her that she was protected. Lestrade waited for the door to close before sending his forensics team into the room. Sherlock abandoned it, taking the book with him.

"What's in the book?" Lestrade called out, just as Sherlock was stepping beyond the threshold of the door. He was left in the near-silence of the flat as the door closed, leaving the inspector at complete loss.

Sherlock stalked down the road, opting to walk instead of catching a cab, despite the darkness that spilled across London. The book felt heavy in his arms as he walked, refusing to look back down at the red, white and blue cover. He felt a heavy weight in his stomach. He recalled the last time someone had threatened to harm someone he cared about and his jaw set tight as he passed beneath a row of streetlights, hyper aware of the sidewalk beneath his feet and the wind playing with his curls. If that was bad, he recalled, Sherlock knew that he would have blood on his hands rather soon.


	9. The Miserable Ones

_You guys have no idea how happy you've all made me. I was going to wait to post this, but you've all earned it early for being so spectacular. I know the suspense has killed you!_

The flat on Baker street appeared haunted in the late darkness of the street. It was an empty shell with no lights on the inside of it's weary, broken face. Eponine and John slipped through the door without so much as breaking the silence that had been thrust around them from the moment they had walked out of her apartment and into the intimidating darkness of London. John bolted the door up behind them, checking it twice as he ushered Eponine up the steps and into the flat. He started a kettle and eased her down onto the couch after flicking on a lamp. Some color had come back to her face as he handed her the cuppa, nearly having to force her shaking hands to accept it.

"You know we won't let anything happen to you." John's voice was barely above a whisper as he knelt in front of her, placing her blanket around her shoulders the way he would have done to a shock patient. She merely nodded and took a sip of tea, not minding how it burned her throat. "Sherlock will find whoever is doing this. We'll catch him and I'll put a bullet in his leg for what he's done."

Eponine's eyes found John's face, a weary smile exchanged between them. She couldn't remember the last time someone had taken such good care of her the way he'd done since Antony died. A quiet 'thank you' escaped her in a small breath. John's hand found her shoulder, a secure grip between his fingers.

"Really, John. Thank you." She placed her hand over his, feeling the slightest touch of comfort in the warmth of his skin. He knelt there for quite some time, watching the fear as it slowly dissipated from her eyes and calmness began to flow over her. After several minutes, her shoulders drooped and she was blinking more than usual, straining to keep her weary eyes open. John let go of her shoulder and took the empty cup from her hand, discarding it on the table.

"Lie down." He told her. Eponine did not argue, burying her face into the pillow and pulling the blanket around her. It took nearly an hour for her eyes to close- John knew it had to be hard to sleep with a threat knocking on the back door, but eventually her breathing evened and she was lost to him.

* * *

The door below the flat had come undone and a tall man intruded, the floorboards creaking below him as Sherlock stepped into 221B. John looked over his shoulder at the door, finding his flat mate standing in the doorway, removing the sleek gloves from his hands. The book was tucked between his arm and side, standing out harshly against the dark fabric Sherlock wore. The snow-freckled coat was hung on its hook and the scarf soon joined it. John stood up, taking a protective stance between the sleeping woman and the slender man.

"Sherlock, if you wake her up, so help me I'll-" John stopped talking as Sherlock pushed the book into John's chest but did not make to move toward Eponine.

"I've no intention of making her more miserable than she already is." Sherlock assured him, catching sight of her rolling over in her sleep. He suppressed a smirk in the notion that she didn't fall off the couch this time. John took the book willingly after breaking his hard gaze on the taller man, his fingers curling around the sides. It was rather thick, almost more so than a dictionary.

"Is it in French?" He asked, brows knitting together as his fingertips traced the raised silver letters. Sherlock opened up the tight space that had been surging between them, stepping back just the slightest bit from him. John recognized the book- practically all of Europe and then some knew of it.

_Les ____Misérables._

"English translation." Sherlock answered, giving a stiff nod at the book. John swallowed and he could have sworn he saw a flicker of something unfamiliar flash across the other man's face. Sherlock had only once been really afraid and this wasn't the look of terror. It wasn't doubt either, but John could not place what it was that had caused Sherlock's pupils to dilate ever so slightly. John cast a look at the sleeping form laying on their couch before he slipped his fingernail between a random page and allowed the book to fall open. It took him much longer to realize than it had taken Sherlock. John read the page and nearly dropped the book as his eyes found the same otherwise minute detail that Sherlock had found merely an hour ago. John's heart had thundered in his chest until that moment. As soon as his eyes found that one word, the surging organ had frozen.

___"____Promise to kiss me on the forehead when I'm dead. I'll feel it."_

___She let her head fall back on Marius's knees and her eyelids closed. He thought the poor soul had gone. Eponine lay motionless, but just when Marius supposed her forever ____asleep____, she slowly opened her eyes, revealing the somber depths of death, and said to him in an accent whose sweetness already seemed to come from another world, "And then, do you know, Monsieur Marius, I believe I was a little in love with you."_

___She tried to smile again and died._

"Keep looking." Sherlock's voice was low and he walked around the doctor, silently lowering himself into his chair. John turned through the book, flipping through the pages as though not believing what he had found. But it was there, in every page where it appeared, the name removed with the tip of a pen.

___She had exchanged rags with the first young scamp she came across who had thought it amusing to dress like a woman, while Eponine disguised herself like a man. It was she who had conveyed to Jean Valjean in the Champ de Mars the expressive warning: "Leave your house."_

The pages turned in flashes as John chose random pages and skipped to them, praying his eyes were deceiving him.

_Eponine_ _wrote on a sheet of blank paper-_

It was there, delicate on every page. Whoever had done it had surely taken their very sweet time.

_What had taken place may be related in a few words._ _Eponine had been the cause of everything._

_Eponine-_

_Eponine_

_Eponine._

John closed the book, passing it back over to Sherlock as the woman on their couch began to stir. Both pairs of eyes glanced at her at once before the John sat in their chair opposite Sherlock. Eponine's eyes opened and she sat up rather slowly, keeping the blanket as close to her as she might have been able to do. Sherlock did not look at her as she stared at the book in his lap.

"May I see?" Her voice was hallow. John's heart broke as Sherlock slowly moved, arm outstretched with the weight of the book in his hand. She took it from him, holding it carefully with an accusing eye as though the innocent object might explode in her touch. Eponine flipped through the book delicately, but no shock registered on her face. A slip of her hair fell forward, obscuring the look in her eye from Sherlock's view. The two men sat in thick silence as they watched her, three heartbeats, all of varying speeds (John's thundering with anger and panic, Eponine's a rich bell made entirely of fear, and Sherlock's calm, collected rhythm) danced in the brooding air around them.

Sherlock practically jumped from his chair and was in front of Eponine with two long strides, bending at the knee to look directly at her face. He reached up, taking the loose coil of hair and tucking it behind her ear where it had come from, earning a jump from the girl as her eyes left the page and found the face in front of her.

Eponine was not crying as he had expected. She was no fool, she knew the words before they left his lips- "Eponine, I believe you might be the next target." His words were gentle, not condescending as per usual, but fell hard into her stomach. Her jaw tightened and she gave a short nod at Sherlock.

"I need you to tell me everything." Sherlock asked of her for the third time. This time, however, they both knew it had nothing to do with Antony. "Anyone who might be after you, I need to know about it."

Eponine said nothing for a long moment as she closed _Les Mis. _Reaching out, she took Sherlock's hand, placed the book on top of it, and pushed it back toward his chest. "I don't have anyone."

"If you're trying to protect someone-" Sherlock accused, his tone turning dark.

"I can't even protect myself." She interjected, tilting her chin as Sherlock rose to his feet. He towered over her sitting form and stuck his hands in his pockets.

"There must be someone you've wronged." He told her, eyes searching her face. As soon as the words left his mouth, Sherlock spotted the pink tip of Eponine's tongue glide over her mouth, just enough that she was completely exposed to him and she didn't even know it. "And don't bother lying, you've already given yourself away. Now tell me."

"Why?" Eponine's word left her mouth with more force than she had expected it to, but Sherlock didn't so much as blink as he was back in her face again. John shifted uncomfortably from his own place a little ways away from them, but neither the waitress or the detective seemed to notice him.

"Because I'm trying to save your life. But by all means, if you think you can take care of yourself, I'll show you to the door and wish you luck." Sherlock nearly spat. Eponine stared back at him for a moment before the breath finally whisked out of her lungs and Sherlock knew he had won. "Who is he?"

"How d'you know-"

"It's the ex-boyfriend." He said simply. Eyes searching Eponine's figure before him: her posture, the tightened jaw, the fading tan line on her right fourth finger. They gave her away and he smirked. "It's _always_ the ex-boyfriend. What was his name?"

Eponine stammered, but Sherlock's determined eyes sucked the fight out of her. "Christian. Christian James, but..."

"Tell me about him." Sherlock demanded. Eponine could see his pupils extend with excitement as his hands came to steeple in front of his face. She shook her head, mouth open.

"What do you want to know? He lived in Leeds, dark hair, pretty blue eyes like yours-" Eponine felt her face go red at her admission, but Sherlock didn't seem to care much. She swallowed, blinking as her eyes tore away from Sherlock's vibrant, ever-watchful orbs. "He was a bit of a jerk, but he's not a murderer."

"You don't know that." Sherlock retorted. "What kind of man was he? I need to know everything you can remember. Where he's from, what family he's got, shoe size, favorite color, cologne he wears, boxers or briefs, who his friends are, where he works." Eponine shook her head as Sherlock rattled off.

"Sherlock, let the woman breathe." John finally spoke up, breaking the tension between the two. Sherlock stood up once more, but it was short lived as he hesitantly sat down next to her, his body turned in so that his entire torso was facing her. Eponine sighed, running a hand through her hair.

"There wasn't anything special about him, Sherlock. Just a normal guy. He used to work on cars, knew a little bit about computers, but he wasn't a nuclear scientist or anything like that. He was nice, I guess. We broke up before Antony and I moved 'cause London's just too far away." Eponine spoke slowly, trying to put together all the thoughts tumbling in her mind. She could see Christian's face in the forefront of her mind, but for some reason, his face in her visions was angry, determined and full of resentment. It was nothing like the kindhearted man she had once been in love with. "He had a temper."

"A violent one." Sherlock confirmed, his eyes trailing over her exposed arms. Her skin was rather pale and he guessed that it didn't take much for her to bruise. She caught him looking and held his gaze, shaking her head.

"No, not really. I mean, we got into scraps once in a while. He'd... Call me names or shove me a bit, I'd slap him across the face and kick him out of the house. We never got into any real domestics. It was the little things like forgetting to call when I'd gotten somewhere so he knew I was safe. He'd never beat me though." Sherlock felt sick with himself upon realizing that he was disappointed to learn this bit of information. A frown deepened on his face. If he wasn't violent-

"Was he jealous?" Sherlock seemed to catch Eponine by surprise. "Never let you go out, have friends, maybe not even family. Always have excuses for you to stay home or to go with you? Surely if he expected you to call him whenever you got somewhere he was paranoid of where you really were."

Eponine seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding slowly. "A bit, yeah. Christian didn't really like when Antony called. They never really got on, but they stayed away from each other pretty well. He never liked my friends, said they were all rubbish. Don't get me wrong, he was right."

"But they were all you had, weren't they?" Sherlock seemed to glow. Eponine looked away from him. "He didn't let you make new friends because he was afraid to share you."

"He wasn't mean, Sherlock." Eponine defended, crossing her arms over her stomach. "He just wanted me to himself. I loved him, that was all I needed."

"Love is a dangerous weapon." Sherlock didn't miss a beat, but Eponine was wounded by his words.

"It's important to love, Sherlock." She was quiet, now, feeling the radiating warmth and realizing how close Sherlock was to her. Her lips pressed in a fine line at this. "Without it, the world would be an even colder place. It's kept the world turning thus far."

Sherlock scoffed. "You're named after a woman who _died _for love. What does that say about you?" His eyes were unforgiving, burning the breaths she had not even yet taken. Eponine felt her heart drop into her stomach at his icy words and she stood up, allowing her blanket to fall alone to the ground, pooling at her feet. She stalked across the room, pulling on her coat. John moved to go after her, but she stopped dead in her movements, turning back to face the offending man on the couch. She walked over slowly, tying the belt around her waist as she began to slowly answer his question, eyes trained on the sitting man- it was her turn to tower over him.

"It says that I'm a fool, Sherlock Holmes." She finally spoke, her voice determined. Sherlock and John both caught the flicker of helplessness pass through her eyes like candlelight. "But I wouldn't trade my foolishness for your loneliness. I'm going over to see Mrs. Hudson, don't wait up for me."

Without another word, without waiting for a reply from either man, Eponine showed them her back at walked out the front door. John turned to look at Sherlock, who turned his face to look back at him, and it was evident that the detective had absolutely no idea what he had done wrong. John shook his head, unable to give a proper answer that Sherlock could understand, but he realized just then that the look in Eponine's eyes as she left the flat, slamming the door behind her, was the same look he had seen in Sherlock and had been unable to read. John wondered vaguely what it meant, but he merely stood up, crossing the room to the stairs and left Sherlock to his own devices.

Sherlock listened until the footsteps vanished. The light pouring down the wooden flight vanished as John closed his bedroom door and the flat was absorbed in dark silence once more.

* * *

He sat in the darkness for a long moment, allowing the light of the pale moon to drift in the window of the room and spill across every surface, imprinting deep shadows into Sherlock's eyes as they swiveled about the room. Eponine's anger at him seemed to come from deep inside and he felt something, disappointment, he thought at first, sit in his gut when the door had slammed behind her. But as he sat in the stillness of the room, he understood what it really had been. He'd felt it when John had been angry- not the shouting, laughable anger that he had exhibited many times. No, it was the same feeling that came when John would say nothing, choosing instead to look Sherlock in the eye (it was _he _who felt disappointed in _Sherlock) _and retreat to his room.

It didn't matter rather he had known what he'd done- usually he did, but then John was usually rather clear about telling Sherlock exactly what he'd mucked up. There was no explanation for Eponine's departure. He sighed heavily, putting his back to the window and ignoring the moon leering accusingly overhead.

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket, fingers dancing over the keys as he sent a text to Lestrade, knowing he wouldn't get anything from the DI until morning came.

**I need everything you can find on Christian James. -SH**

Sherlock tossed the phone to the side, not bothering to watch where it landed in the darkness. Finally unable to keep his eyes away, he turned back toward the five books that had made their way to the table in front of him. They mocked him, each of them holding secrets that not even Sherlock Holmes could read. He stood up, pretending he couldn't hear their laughter in his head. He retreated from the flat, careful to be sure John wouldn't notice him leaving.

He was not surprised to find Eponine sitting at one of the abandoned plastic tables at Speedy's Cafe just outside his front door. _Didn't make it very far. _Sherlock approached her from behind, careful not to upset her. She didn't say a word as he took a seat next to her, but she didn't tell him to piss off or smack him or get up and stalk off either, so he assumed it must have been alright. They sat in silence for a long moment as the shadows grew longer and more slender over the city street.

"Would you like to walk with me?" Her voice was quiet, filling the crevices of Sherlock's hearing. He didn't answer, but followed her anyway as she stood up and began toeing her way down Baker street, still avoiding his eye.

The streetlights on the corner illuminated the dark scape around them with greens and reds. Sherlock and Eponine stopped at the corner, the latter looking up and down the street as though she thought a car might actually go by. Of course none did, but she stood at the edge of the curb the same way a man might have done before he leaped over the side of a cliff.

"I'm sorry for going off." Eponine finally acknowledge Sherlock directly as they passed through a crosswalk. "It's just a touchy subject- Christian, that is." He wondered briefly if there was something else she had been hiding, but she showed no signs of harboring a dark secret. No, she was much too boring to have a deep, dark secret.

"I wasn't meaning to offend." He told her coyly. She nodded and Sherlock pretended not to notice the slick streak of a tear excreting from her left eye. They walked for quite some time and Eponine wasn't sure where exactly they had ended up, but she knew that Sherlock's mind was a map of its own and she needn't worry. It hadn't occurred to her until that moment that she had been unafraid during their walk- something she was sure only existed because Sherlock was beside her.

"I loved him." She said finally as they turned around, deciding to head back before the sun rose over London. "I really did. But, I found out that he had this _little_ drug problem-" Sherlock felt a stone settle in his throat, though he really couldn't have told you why. "and they were more important to him. It broke my heart."

Sherlock said nothing for a long moment as they walked. He'd never had his heart broken, not quite the way that normal people had. Sure, he thought once upon a time that he, like her, had been in love. Irene Adler came to mind, but he shoved her away before he could notice the redness of her lips. There was nothing he could say that would fix the heartache of the woman currently next to him. He folded his hands behind his back.

"Love makes people do foolish things, Eponine." He caught her looking at him in the corner of his eye. She nodded. "It can turn the most innocent man into a murderer."

"Have you ever killed anyone?" Her question pierced Sherlock with surprise and his brow rose. Her face flushed. "Sorry, I just- Even if you won't admit it, it's obvious you care deeply for John. I imagine you'd kill anyone who tried to hurt him." Her eyes seemed to ignite in the darkness as they stalked through the freshly fallen snow.

"No, I haven't." Sherlock did not deny caring for John, which brought a smile to Eponine's face. She wondered vaguely if he cared for her too, but decided she wasn't sure if she wanted to put him in that situation or even know the answer.

"I don't know if it means much to you, but I'd kill someone to protect people I care about. John's in that category," She let out a short laugh, the sound radiating off of the walls that lined the streets. Sherlock could see heat rise in her cheeks as her eyes fell on his own face, even in the darkness. "And so are you, you know."

Sherlock did not answer, training his eyes on the path in front of them. Eponine followed his example, content with her confession. She hadn't expected him to say anything back and was relieved that he didn't. Eponine knew the silence was Sherlock's own way of saying that he cared for her, too. He didn't need to say that he would kill someone to save her, or that he would do some spectacular feet to rescue her. They walked down the sidewalk together, neither needing to say another word. Neither of them noticed the piercing blue eyes watching them from the shadows, taking in sharp breaths of the toxic December air.


	10. Christian James

It came at eight-thirty.

**There's no Christian James anywhere near our jurisdiction.**

**That's because he's from Leeds -SH**

He thought it was fairly obvious, but the detective inspector didn't seem to think as much. Sherlock wove out of his bedroom the next morning with a sore neck, having spent most of the night bent over a book. He found himself looking worse for wear when the water began to run in his shower and he heart the distinct buzz of his mobile outside the curtain. Ever vigilant, Sherlock listened to the sounds of John and Mrs. Hudson talking in the kitchen. The water came to an abrupt halt and Sherlock took the phone back into his hand, the screen glazed over with steam. His thumb ran over it and he frowned.

**I'll look into it, it's the best I can do.**

Sherlock didn't bother hiding his disappointment as he pushed his way out of the bathroom and to the kitchen, the smell of morning kissing his nose.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson smiled at the wet-haired man as he slid into one of the chairs on the side of the table John had cleared off. His room mate said nothing through his mouthful of food, eyes downcast at the morning papers. "There was a man here for you this morning, but it was much too early-"

"I'm already on a case, Mrs. Hudson." He answered, fingers wrapping around the cup she'd put in front of him. Eponine appeared in the doorway with sleep under her eyes. She was still in her sleeping clothes.

"Morning, everyone." She yawned, weaving around the table with the grace only a waitress- or a dancer- had, accepting a plate from Mrs. Hudson. "I thought you weren't the housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson." Laughter sparkled in Eponine's eye, even in the early morning.

"I'm not, but I woke up early this morning and had the time." She told the younger girl, turning to the stove to clean up. "About that man, Sherlock..."

The doorbell rang. "I've got it." Eponine took her hair into her hands as she stood up, pulling it into a somewhat presentable ponytail. She padded down the steps and out of the flat, her bare feet cold against the wooden floor.

As she wrenched the door open, Eponine was surprised that the other side wasn't a face she'd been expecting. He grinned at her and she couldn't help but feel relaxed at his presence. They embraced and he asked her how she was holding up.

"Come on up, we'll talk over tea." Eponine closed the door behind them as they entered the warm flat. Ben removed his shoes and followed her into the kitchen. She hadn't seen him since they discovered the book in her flat and everyone agreed she should stay inside 221 unless accompanied. As they entered the room, John and Mrs. Hudson turned to see him. "This is John, Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock. Everyone, this is my friend Ben."

"Hello." Ben gave a small wave to the crowded kitchen. John smiled up at him, looking between him and Eponine. Sherlock had the papers, stolen from under John's nose, folded around his face and was reading a rather boring article and couldn't be bothered.

"He your boyfriend then?" John asked, giving a slight nod in Ben's direction. Eponine snorted.

"No chance," She said, exchanging a look with Ben. "He's gay."

"Oh." John looked taken aback, but his glittering eyes and smile ceased to fade away. Eponine led Ben back into the other room, giving Sherlock a chance to look over the man as they put their backs to him. Bartender, late twenties, only child, pet cat, morning person- Sherlock looked away, completely bored by the man even before he had gotten so far as pointing out the left-handedness.

"So, no closer finding out who's trying to kill you then?" Ben stood in the center of the room, shifting back and forth on his feet. Eponine shook her head, not looking him in the eye. She had been talking to him more often now, but she wasn't sure she was ready to tell him about Christian. There was always a chance of Ben doing something stupid, and Sherlock made sure Eponine knew as much. "Maybe we could go out and get you a drink? You look like you need it."

"They won't let me leave." Eponine sighed, pulling her DVD case out of the bag at the foot of the couch. She shuffled through them, but a lifestyle with Sherlock Holmes made even James Bond seem downright boring. "I'm their hostage."

"Not even with me?" Ben's brows rose as a quirked smile crossed his face. "Maybe I could kidnap you, just for an hour or two?" Eponine cast a look toward the kitchen, watching Mrs. Hudson fuss of Sherlock and John make fun of his photo in the tabloids. Mischief ignited in her eyes and she grabbed her coat, sharing a smile with her friend as they slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind them.

* * *

John pushed the chair beneath the table as Mrs. Hudson cleaned up the utensils about the kitchen, muttering to Sherlock about getting a haircut. The detective wasn't listening to her bustle. John glanced around the room and stepped into the next room, brows furrowing at the silence.

"Sherlock?" He turned back around just as Sherlock's phone buzzed. The detective ignored it, propping his feet on the kitchen table. John glanced at the phone, finding a text message from their favorite officer. He opened it without second guessing Sherlock's lack of motivation or concern.

**Christian James sold his house two weeks ago. Credit cards and bank account are closed.**

"What's this?" John handed the phone over to the detective. Sherlock took it, skimming it over with his eyes. He threw his feet off the table, whisking past John into the next room. "Should I start worrying now?"

"Eponine's ex-boyfriend, suspect number one. He's suddenly had a change of heart and left Leeds. Wonder where he went." Sherlock turned to face John, a condescending smirk playing on his lips.

"But why?" John watched his flat mate as he stalked the living room like a hungry wolf, staring at the wall that was still coated with maps. "If he wanted to get to her, why kill her brother and all of those other people?"

"Why not?" Sherlock stared at John as though it were obvious. John didn't have an answer. Sherlock seemed to have a realization as he looked around the room. "Speaking of which..."

"Where'd she go?"

* * *

"You would think he'd have the decency to get dressed first!" Eponine laughed, linking her arm with Ben's next to her as they wove through the sun-filled streets. "And it wasn't just me either. He never gets dressed for clients. They come in with their faces all red 'cause he's got a bathrobe on and he doesn't even blink. And he's got this scale for how 'interesting' a case is and he doesn't even leave unless it's a seven out of ten."

"Sounds a bit looney." Ben snorted, pushing the door open and letting the warm air of the pub kiss their faces. She walked in ahead of him, bending the joints in her fingers as they adjusted to the new-found heat. "Told you he was a bit of a prat. Didn't even remember we met once. My sister wanted him to look into her husband's affair and he waved it off like it wasn't nothing."

"He does that, yeah." Eponine took the shot that was sat in front of her, ignoring the fact that it had yet to be ten in the morning. "But he's not too bad either." Ben shook his head, wincing at the whiskey burning his throat.

"Sherlock Holmes is a complete prick, Eponine." He leaned against the bar, studying Eponine as she refused to look him in the eye. "Don't tell me you think you're friends?"

Eponine reached to the side, pulling his glass toward her and taking a rather large drink. "I've spent lots of time around him, you know. We've gotten to know each other."

"As soon as this case is over," Ben watched the amber liquid drain from the glass. "He's going to wave you off. You're around because of John. Now, John- John's a good guy. But Sherlock doesn't care about anything. He just gets off on showing the world his oversized cranium." Eponine said nothing as Ben talked, staring into the mug she had effectively emptied.

"We play Cluedo." Eponine weakly argued, a half-smile gracing her lips. "John and I are always Scarlet and Mustard, but he picks someone new every time."

"The genius, psychopathic Sherlock Holmes plays Cluedo?" Ben scoffed, nearly laughing at the very prospect. "Maybe he's human after all. I bet he's always the murderer, isn't he?"

"And we watch crap telly and movies. He talks a lot during shows and horror movies are no good because he's smarter than everyone in them and can figure out who the killer is ten minutes in. He likes documentaries." Eponine offered, watching as the barman refilled the glass in front of her. She could feel Ben's eyes trained on her as he listened, silently judging both her and the man she spoke about.

"You talk about the man like he's a God." Ben laughed, splitting open a straw wrapper. He tucked it into the glass and sipped from it, glancing over the rim of the cup at the door. The bar was nearly empty, but Ben sat up a bit straighter as the door opened, his eyes dropping to look at Eponine.

"He's brilliant." Eponine looked up, finding Ben's eyes flicker between her and the door. She followed his line of sight, her heart dropping into her stomach as she was met with shocking blue eyes and a quirked smile.

"Eponine." His voice was slick like a serpent, forcing its way into Eponine's ears. She nearly fell backwards shying away, nearly choking on the drink sitting behind her lips.

"Christian."

* * *

"She was with Ben, wasn't she?" John jogged behind Sherlock as they shoved their way down the street. "He wouldn't just let a strange man walk up and take her away. It's the middle of the day!"

Sherlock didn't answer as he stopped outside the Canteen, peering through the windows and looking for the familiar pink and grey coat he knew she would be wearing. When he didn't find her there, he cursed under his breath and stalked down the street.

"Christian is smart and he's got to be in London. He wiped away any documents that could lead us right to him." Sherlock retorted, glancing in the windows as they passed by rather quickly, his stride firm and determined. "The middle of the day is the _best _time to walk off with someone. Her little friend isn't strong, he isn't threatening and he sure as hell isn't clever."

"You don't trust her do you? You think she'll just walk away with a madman." John accused. Sherlock stopped dead, causing the doctor to run into Sherlock's back. Sherlock watched through the window, sticking his hands in his pockets.

"No," Sherlock answered, not tearing his gaze from the pane of glass. "I don't trust her choice in friends."

John followed Sherlock's line of sight, squinting against the sun reflected on the window. The bar on the other side was nearly empty, but he could make out Eponine and Ben sitting at the bar, staring down a man who stood in front of her. There was an eerily calm look on her face as the man talked to her, avoiding her piercing gaze.

His hair was curled down the back of his neck and he dressed simply- not what John had expected at all. He wore a stripped shirt and a zipped up jacket, but there was a certain gait about the way he held his firm jaw and his eyes stared down Eponine like a cat that made the men uneasy.

"Do we go in?" John swallowed, watching the standing man. His hand subconsciously fell to the gun on his hip, but Sherlock was already pushing the door open. John followed cautiously.

"You might want to buy her a drink first." Sherlock's voice tore through the air, bounding off the surfaces. The intrusion brought three pairs of eyes to his hardened face. "Though, if I were a murderous lover, I might suggest dinner and a film."

"Oh, I'm sorry." The man's voice was about as smooth as sandpaper and he took a step away from Eponine, a shimmer of superiority in his toothy smile. He looked down at the girl who had not relaxed since his entering the bar. "I wasn't aware you were spoken for."

"Christian James." Sherlock bit, ignoring his snide comments. Christian tilted his head to the side, eyes trailing over Sherlock. The latter man felt a crawling sensation of discomfort crawl over his skin under the man's gaze. His eyes were a stunning blue, sharp and all-knowing against his pale, stretched skin. Sherlock might have been intimidated if he hadn't met _another _man named James first.

"I don't think we've met, Mr. Holmes. But I don't need to, do I?" Christian didn't bother trying to hide the sly smile on his face.

"You've killed five people. The only person you need to meet is your cellmate." Sherlock moved carefully into the room. Christian didn't flinch as the gap between them became a meager two feet.

"Dear Eponine has just finished telling me all about the crimes I supposedly committed." Christian turned to look at Eponine, her shoulders straight and back rigid, eyes dancing between the two men. "I didn't kill those people, detective."

"Of course you did." Sherlock spat, eyes narrowing as he took in the other man. There was something about him that didn't seem to read right. Christian simply kept smiling as though he had already won. "Couldn't bare being alone? Love does do terrible things to the psyche, surely you could understand that."

"I really do wish I could help you, Sherlock. But I've only just today gotten into town. You can check the security tapes at the hotel I've been staying at for the past two weeks, if you like. The Grove, in Lewisham. Under my brother's name. I don't know anything about your murders." Christian's eyes fell on Ben and Eponine briefly. "I only came to say hello to an old friend. If you don't mind..." The striking man stepped carefully around Sherlock, pausing to glance at John, who seared up at the other man before he slipped out the door, the tiny bell ringing behind him.

* * *

"Couldn't have been." Sherlock growled, hands moving through his hair in frustration. John, Eponine and Ben lurked around the room, all of them equally confused about what had transpired only hours ago. John was still seething at Eponine running off, thumbs rubbing at this temples as he tried to understand what they had missed.

"Maybe someone was working for him?" Ben offered. "Like minions or something?"

"Do try your best to not think, Billy." Sherlock mumbled, pressing play on the screen. Ben opened his mouth to correct him, but Eponine shook her head and his jaw snapped closed as she leaned over Sherlock's shoulder to watch. The video rolled by as he watched Christian James as he checked into a hotel two weeks ago, to the date. From time to time, he was seen leaving his room and then returning later, but he was always in his room during the murders. "His room was on the third floor, no where near any fire escapes, ladders, rooftops... Unless he's a trapeze artist, he was in that room the entire time."

John was vaguely reminded of the Blind Banker at the very idea, but he doubted the sly man he had met today was capable of that. "If Christian didn't kill those people, who did? There's got to be another person." He saw the striking eyes in the back of his mind and shuddered. Sherlock didn't reply, leaving the room empty handed.

"I better get going, got to work early tomorrow." Ben placed a careful kiss on Eponine's temple and gave the other two men a curt nod before slipping into his shoes.

"Be careful." Eponine warned. Ben nodded and descended the staircase, stepping out into the crowded street. Sherlock watched out the window as Ben climbed into a cab. It pulled away from the curb and he let the curtain fall closed between himself and the street below.

"He smiled too much." Sherlock stopped, looking up and seeming to pull himself from the palace of his mind. "John, he kept smiling."

"Well, yeah, that's what insane people do when they win. You do it all the time." John sat down in his chair, holding the side of his face between his index finger and thumb, elbow on the arm of the posh red seat. "What's that got to do with it?"

"He's clever, but he made one mistake." Sherlock turned toward Eponine with a spark of fire on his face. "Oh, this is brilliant. He kept smiling, but not the kind of smile you give when you know you're winning. No, no that- that is clever."

"Sorry, I'm a bit lost." Eponine shook her head as Sherlock moved about the room, bouncing like a small child.

"Didn't you notice? He's a mechanic, but he was completely clean- not a single smudge of grease. He hasn't been near cars in ages."

"I don't understand." John sighed, impatience rolling over him. Sherlock was grinning too, now. Looking up at the maps.

"_He's _the one being paid, the one working for someone else. The connection. He works on cars, John. Anyone who's had car troubles- the accountant, the woman in the bathtub, the priest. They all had something in common; something _everyone _has in common, once in a while." Excitement rushed through Sherlock's veins as he spoke quickly, piecing together things he very well should have known ages ago. "They all needed to have something _fixed. _He wasn't lying, he didn't kill those people, but he _was _helping our killer. He got him into their homes. All he would have needed to do is find a way inside. Mechanics are easy to trust, you let them right in the front door!"

"If he was helping someone kill those people, why? What's in it for him?" John stood up, taking in the words as they rushed from Sherlock's lips in a hot breath. "What's any of this got to do with smiling?"

"Money, drugs, anything he could have ever wanted. The killer is smart, he might have even convinced James that he could have his darling little girlfriend back in his waiting arms." Sherlock mimicked with his hands, turning to face Eponine with wild eyes. "Only way we're going to find out who he's been with it to follow him. And we know exactly where he's staying- he told us, right there." Sherlock pressed the button again and they watched Christian walk into the hotel and check in. John and Eponine sat in the silence as Sherlock finally seemed to slow down, standing up straight and pushing his hair away from his face, chest heaving with energy. Eponine stared at him with her stomach in her throat. He saw fear in the irises, his own reflection looking back at him in the dark centers. It didn't take but a moment for him to realize Christian was not the cause of that fear in that moment.

He was.

"Eponine," Sherlock cleared his throat, moving closer to her with his eyes downcast."I need you to help me catch him. Until we do, your life and the lives of everyone you care about are in danger." Eponine stared at the flaming, electric eyes of the detective. She nodded stiffly, swallowing her courage. "Anything."


	11. Miracle on Baker Street

_I'm so amazed by you wonderful people. Thanks so much to every single reader and reviewer! I'm so happy. I won't spoil anything, but after watching the new series, I've already got a few ideas planted in my head for this story. All I'm going to say about this chapter is that it's wayyyy more significant than it seems. Pay close attention ;)_

* * *

The sun was climbing over London, illuminating the towering structures of the city. The streets were slick with yesterday's rain, glaring the light back into the faces of passersby. Shoes squeaked against the asphalt and water splashed with the turning tires before disappearing into the drains beneath the city. Water leaked over awnings and dripped onto the ground below. It was a dreary Saturday, to say the least. December had brought its tears to the fair city, but now the face was drying.

Despite the atrocious weather, garland wrapped around flag poles and street signs, bells and colored lights contrasted the dreary building exteriors, and music swam through the air. Christmas had come sleepily, but not without the cold wind and bitter rain.

Molly Hooper walked with her head held high, chin tilted forward and a smile painted on her face with dark red lipstick. Her hair was curled and pinned away from her face, her back straight and gifts in hand. She tried not to think of the previous holiday she had spent at Baker street, when Sherlock Holmes had broken her heart with his cunning wit. When she knocked on the door, this time Molly was ready. It wasn't answered by Sherlock, John, or even the kind landlady that Molly had thought of much like her mother. Instead, the woman behind 221 B was a face she had never seen before.

"Oh, hello!" The woman's voice was gentle and kind as she stepped aside immediately, letting Molly in the door. "I don't think we've met. I'm Eponine."

"Molly." Her voice was off just a slight strum as she followed the other brunette up to the flat. She couldn't help but subtly judge Eponine, as in womanly nature. She was dressed in a deep, forest green sweater with sleeves just a tad bit long and simple denim jeans with her hair brushed straight. "Sorry, but who are you, exactly?"

Eponine looked over her shoulder as they met the top of the steps and the door leading inside was pulled open. "Just one of John and Sherlock's friends. And a client, I suppose." The two women were greeted with the warm smell of peppermint and what Molly pinpointed as sugar cookies.

"You were the one Greg told me about." Molly realized, following the girl deeper into the room. The flat was eagerly decorated with lights and wreaths. A tree stood in the corner where the desk had been shoved out of the way, presents sitting around the base.

"Eponine, do you always invite strangers into your home?" Sherlock was bitter with resentment at the hateful holiday. Molly looked between them nervously as she set the presents next to the tree.

"Sorry-" She began to talk, but she cut herself off as neither of them were paying attention to her. Her eyes found John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson already sitting on the couch and found her way over to them, shrugging off Sherlock's usual spite.

"I imagine if Christian was sending someone to kill me, he might send someone a bit more intimidating than a sweet girl with presents." Eponine's brows rose, but Sherlock scoffed at her ignorance.

"One of those _gifts _could have been a bomb." Sherlock said simply, fingering the strings of his voilin. Eponine shrugged, handing him a peace offering in the form of a cookie. He glanced at it for a moment, staring it down as though he didn't trust the sweet dough, but he took it from her wordlessly as his eyes flickered back to her face. He gave her his back, inspecting the treat as she stalked over to the others, sharing with them as well. The group laughed from their place on the couch, sharing stories and spiked eggnog. Sherlock took the smallest of bites from the cookie, chewing rather slowly as he did, before putting it down on a napkin. He observed the group of people as they enjoyed themselves, but before too long Sherlock had picked up his violin and was strumming away with _Ode to Joy_, much to the pleasure of Mrs. Hudson. The five people on the other side of the room drinking and laughing soon became seven as Ben and John's current girlfriend (Sherlock didn't remember her name, and it was rather irrelevant) joined them. Sherlock's lip pressed fine as he played, watching with dancing eyes as they swarmed together, most of them having met only moments ago, as though they were a large, rather dysfunctional family. He wondered vaguely where in that group he would see fit, but waved it away as soon as it came. Eponine caught his eye, her eyes swimming and glassy with alcohol. She removed herself from a conversation with Molly and Greg, forcing her way between sweater-clad bodies and over to the window beside Sherlock.

"You could try to be a bit festive, you know." Eponine let out a small laugh as Sherlock pulled his bow down and lowered the instrument from his shoulder.

"Last year, Mrs. Hudson tried to get me to wear reindeer antlers." Sherlock cast a weary look in the woman's direction, where she was laughing rather loudly amongst the group around her. "Christmas is a meager holiday invented by greeting card companies with intentions of forcing people to be around those they try to avoid every other time of the year."

Eponine frowned, looking over at the group of people on the opposite side of the room. They were laughing, smiling, and appeared content. The lights lining the walls illuminated the extra cheer, the wine and nogg and cider in their cups glistening in shades of red, green, and gold. She gave a nod in their direction. "What about that?"

"What about it?" Sherlock's brow rose, unable to comprehend the sentiment spreading through the warm love filling the collection of red faces. Eponine's hands found her hips and she gave him a look of disapproval.

"For a genius, you really are quite stupid."

"I'm stupid?" Sherlock scoffed inwardly. "You strolled out of the flat in your sleeping clothes to go have a drink with a gay barman and your serial-killing lover."

"I'm not afraid of him." Eponine's voice was strong, hardened with each syllable. Sherlock watched the lights dance in her eyes as she glared up at him. A smirk crossed his lips. _And I'm not afraid of you._

"I know." He said simply, smoothing out the green button up Mrs. Hudson had insisted on- it was the closest to festive he was willing to get. "That's why you're an idiot."

Eponine didn't say anything as she lowered herself into Sherlock's chair, earning a disapproving frown and narrowed eye from the detective. She didn't move from her place as he began to play another song, one that surely reached only their ears over the sound of chatter from their friends. Sherlock placed the violin back in its sacred place and shot Eponine a look, which caused her to rise from the chair. He took the seat from her.

"You could at least pretend to be cheerful." Eponine smiled down at Sherlock as she took her glass into her hand, having let it rest on the fireplace mantel. She sipped at the red wine slowly, peering at Sherlock over her glass.

"Why waste the effort?" Sherlock hummed, not looking back at her. She frowned again, crossing one arm over her stomach. She didn't bother answering him, though there were a number of things she could have said: that they were his friends, or to do it for himself. But she kept her mouth closed off from his retorts, and in good time too.

"Presents!" Mrs. Hudson hiccuped, approaching the tree and taking a few brightly-wrapped boxes into her hands. She gave them out, a few going to Sherlock and Eponine as well. Sherlock simply watched as the room began to fill with ripped, shining paper, glitter, ribbon, bows- you name it.

Eponine held a deep crimson scarf from John carefully between her fingertips, a delicate smile feathering her lips. She didn't pay much attention to Sherlock's weary glance, choosing to place a tightly wrapped, gold gift off to the side- she would open it later, he knew, but she didn't want anyone to know that Sherlock had gotten her and John gifts (to the ushering of Mrs. Hudson, who had locked him out of the flat until he returned with said gifts.) He silently thanked her for sparing him the embarrassment and was pleased to see that John, too, had placed his off to the side.

* * *

As their guests began to vacate, giving Eponine and John hugs, thanks, and 'Happy Christmas's, Sherlock stood beside the door and accepted their kind words, but none bothered trying to touch him as he held the door open, finally allowing it to slam behind them as they vanished. He stood in the kitchen doorway, looking about the abandoned joy that was Christmas. Wrapping paper swarmed the floor and furniture and glasses filled the kitchen sink- the only sign there had ever been other people in the flat. Eponine's gifts were piled on her place on the couch and Sherlock smirked upon seeing _Heart of Darkness _among them, sitting right next to the unwrapped golden gift. Eponine caught him looking and picked up the book.

"From Ben. About gave me a heart attack." She laughed and gathered the rest of the gifts into her hands, putting them in her bags or on the table, but leaving the golden gift where it was. The crimson scarf was hung with her coat next to Sherlock's. The three of them set to cleaning up wrapping paper and ribbons. Eponine pressed a green bow to her hair. Sherlock thought she looked ridiculous, but said nothing as he threw a wad of tissue paper into the trash. Mrs. Hudson came into the room, sobered up after the many gulps of water John had nearly forced down her throat, carrying a tray of steaming cocoa. Eponine and John took mugs from her, sipping at the marshmallows as they picked up remaining pieces of tinsel.

"Happy Christmas." John smiled at Eponine as she threw her arms around his shoulders in a tight hug. He returned the gesture, inhaling the peppermint scent that lingered in her hair. Sherlock took the moment to slip into his room, content to call the holiday completed. The two let go of their friendly embrace, taking the mugs into their hands again.

"Won't be seeing him for a while." John sighed. His eyes fell on the two golden packages on the table and a soft smile graced his lips. He knew they were forced by Mrs. Hudson, but he also knew that it would have been easy for Sherlock to have picked the lock and let himself back inside. "Eponine?" He took both gifts into hand and passed hers to her. Unwrapping his carefully, he opened the box with curiosity. His brows rose as his eyes found the silver, square shaped watch. He couldn't help but look at the one on his wrist: they were the exact same watch, but the one he wore was scuffed, the screen scratched from their many adventures, no doubt. John let out a small chuckle, turning toward Eponine to show the gift to her, but she was paying him no attention. She was curled in the chair with her feet tucked beneath her. Her blanket fell over her shoulders gently and her head was bowed, looking carefully at something in her lap. John stepped closer, hovering slightly over her as he looked between the long strands of hair. "What is it?"

Eponine sat back, clearing her throat as John leaned closer to look at the object. Gold paper glittered in her lap, torn back from the front of the flat frame in her hand. The frame itself was a simple silver, shining and new. The photograph inside hitched Eponine's breath and she covered her mouth with her hand as to not make a sound. She was in it, her hair in two low pigtails over her shoulders. She was much shorter then, barely five foot tall and barely old enough to drive. Her arm was thrown around a man in a camouflage uniform, a green beret placed strategically on his head. His eyes were a crisp gold, but his smile matched the young girl on his left. On the man's right was another, young man- just turned twenty, with eyes that matched the girl's. John recognized Antony easily at the end, but the man in the middle he'd never seen before. He guessed that it was her father, watching her fingertips run over the glass that separated her from the image.

"People tend to appreciate sentiment." Sherlock's voice echoed from the kitchen door. Eponine looked up at him, leaning on the frame and watching her and John. Eponine didn't bother asking where he'd gotten the photograph from, but she placed the frame on the table next to _Heart of Darkness, _crossing the room in a blink and wrapped her arms around the detective. He became rigid at her touch and opened his mouth to protest-

"Say a word and I swear I'll kill you. Just take it like a man." Her words were muffled in his shoulder and Sherlock's mouth closed, ignoring the mocking look he could feel John sending his way. He'd never live down that one moment. He didn't hug her back, but she seemed satisfied enough and let him go after a painstakingly long, vicelike moment of intimacy- which in reality was probably all of five seconds. "Thank you."

Sherlock didn't say anything, eying the cluster of gifts- his, John's, and Eponine's- that had collected in their living room. John was already putting on the watch Sherlock had given him, thanking Sherlock as he tightened the strap. Eponine was padding up the steps that led to John's room, disappearing into the room with a questioning look from Sherlock. He turned back to the fireplace, adjusting the skull that had managed to be placed between two tall, red and white Christmas candles. He blew them out, eager to get rid of the large amount of decorations that John and Eponine had put up.

"Here." Her voice rang from the top of the steps. She padded down, the way a child would have done that morning. A long box was in her hands, wrapped simply with bright red. Sherlock chose to believe she had picked the color randomly, noting that she didn't wear lipstick and her nails were painted with blue sparkles. He took it from her. "It's not sentimental, I'm afraid. Didn't think you'd go for that sort of thing."

"Surely." Sherlock examined the box, unsure of what might lay inside. He knew that Eponine would never get him something useless like cufflinks or tie pins (this box was much too big for that anyway) and it felt much too heavy to be another article. He peeled the paper back and didn't bother suppressing the slight smile that came to his lips. John laughed as soon as he saw the box beneath the paper and even Eponine felt herself proud of her choice in gifts.

"Ben gave me the idea." Eponine leaned against John, the two submerged in the joy of her gift giving. Sherlock turned the game over in his hands. He hadn't played _this_ game in many years. It was something he had been introduced to by _other children_, but the game was one of the few parts of childhood that had always stuck with him. He could play it without so much as looking down. He sat the box carefully into his seat and glanced at his laughing friends.

* * *

The sun began to go down over the city as snow cast a shadow over the brick buildings and frozen streets. Inside 221B, three grown adults sat around an Operation board, laughing with hot chocolate in their throats and _How the Grinch Stole Christmas _on the television. A blanket lay across the shoulders of a young woman and her doctor friend; the other man sat comfortably in a navy colored dressing gown, holding tiny tweezers between his fingers as he withdrew the "Butterflies in the Stomach" game piece. He sat it gingerly to the side, passing the tweezers to Eponine. She took them, her fingertips brushing against Sherlock's hand. John watched her hand as she worked to remove the "Wish Bone," but the buzzer went off on her. He could have sworn she did it on purpose. She took a long drink from the hot cup next to her as John took his turn and the two men continued to play under her watchful gaze. Inevitably, Sherlock won the game with the Broken Heart.


	12. Purest Form of Hate

_Thank you thank you thank you! I can't say it enough. This chapter is over 5,000 words and full of 'what.' so bear with me my lovelies! I started school Tuesday, but being in college gives me the ability to create my own schedule and lucky me only has class Tuesdays and Thursdays. i'll be updating as much as possible, so keep your eye out! anyway, enough rambling, here's chapter 12!_

* * *

"Who is he?" The voice was slick, dissipating into the air with the smoke of a blow out candle, curling like a noose and spitting venom into the two minds that sat stoically on either side of the speaker. Two sets of dilated eyes- one the color of the sea after a storm, another a fiendish green, watched the man at the end of the table as he sat the photograph down between them. The green eyed man took in a breath, just loud enough to be heard to their straining ears.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." said the man with blue eyes. His tongue ran gingerly over his lips and his back was straight against the chair he sat in. One leg crossed over the other and his hands folded on his knee, eyes focused on the photograph as he tried to stand tall under the watchful gaze of their organizer.

"He's clever." The man with green eyes leaned forward, the stubble on his cheek appearing in the light. Shadows danced beneath his eyes and over the rest of his face, making him out as a horror movie villain. "He's the one who put them all away, before us."

"Shh...-errrrr," The third man drew out the syllables, savoring the taste on his tongue. "-Lock Holmes... How interesting." He sat back in his chair, foot wiggling with eagerness. "Time to come out and play, boys. Do try to keep her death short. Daddy's ready for a new game." Without another word, he rose from his chair, smoothing out the front of his Westwood suit and stepping from the room, leaving the other men in his wake.

"Did you give it to her?" Christian watched the door as it closed behind the other man, casting the slightest bit of light on the mahogany floor before it was snuffed away. His eyes wandered over the face of the man across from him, a smirk playing on his lips. The other man nodded vaguely, his fingers gracing the underside of his chin.

"Slipped it right under her nose. She doesn't even know she's got it." The man smiled through the valley of darkness that engulfed his being. "I've met Holmes too, you know. " His tone was sour as he spoke, eyes falling to the table between the men. He leaned forward, his eyes dark and boring into Christian's skin, peeling back layer upon layer of his inner doubt.

"The mind of man is capable of anything," Christian started, choosing his words carefully as he considered the photograph of Sherlock Holmes. "Because everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future. Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valour, rage — who can tell?" Christian picked it up between the tips of his fingers, examining the edges of the fine paper between the tips of calloused prints, brittle in his hand, just like the man occupying the print. "But truth — truth stripped of its cloak of time. Let the fool gape and shudder. The truth will be what brings her down."

"The truth?" The other man asked, watching as Christian's fingers slipped and the photo was torn in two. "Which truth is that?" Christian considered this for a moment as the halves of Sherlock Holmes fell on the tabletop. His fingers folded, save the index and thumb, pointing at the opposite figure. A low _pop_ escaped Christian's lips before they curled into a stomach wrenching smile.

"You."

* * *

Christmas had only passed three days when John opened the door and found Lestrade on the other side. The two men stepped into the clutter that created the flat, moving carefully around the carefully orchestrated experiments Sherlock had taken up the living space for. Eponine glanced up at them upon their entry, leaning to the side to see who was on the other side of the overturned chair in the middle of the room.

"Oh, hi, Greg." She smiled at the detective and closed _Heart of Darkness, _bending in the corner as to not lose her place. Lestrade nodded in acknowledgment.

"Where's Sherlock?" He looked around the flat, weary of the other man. He half-expected to see him wrapped in a sheet or dressing gown. As if on cue, the dark haired man appeared in the hallway to the left, blinking at Lestrade through the sunspots in his eyes. Oddly enough, he was already dressed.

"Where did that come from?" Sherlock remarked, staring at the light coming in the window.

"That's the sun, Sherlock." Eponine smirked as he put his back to it, eyed Lestrade up and down and then seemed to realize who the man was. "He hasn't slept since Christmas, no wonder he's looney."

"Sherlock Holmes is always looney." Lestrade held his hand out to Sherlock, who looked down at the vanilla folder with distrust, but took it anyway. "We've had a man following Christian James since he came to town. Switched hotels, but hasn't done anything too fishy yet. Spends a lot of time in bookstores and in a nightclub called _Pulse, _just off Invicta Plaza. Informant says he goes in, drinks two mojitos and a glass of whiskey, talks to a few pretty ladies and then leaves- always alone."

Sherlock flipped through the files: reports on activity, photos of him and the people he talked to- anyone who so much as said hello to him was photographed. He scowled. They were all useless interactions, nothing that meant much. "What about phone calls?"

"We can't monitor his calls, Sherlock, we've got nothing to go on. We don't have proof he's even done anything wrong. There's no evidence to suggest he was anywhere near the victims, no fingerprints on the books or in Eponine's flat. We've got nothing on this guy, he's totally clean." Lestrade looked incredibly helpless, holding his hands out defensively. "I'm giving you all I've got, but I can't keep my guy on James's tail forever."

"Then what good are you?" Sherlock barked, shoving the folder into John's willing hands. John opened the file as well, rereading all the things Sherlock had just done, knowing he wouldn't find anything that Sherlock couldn't. "Once again, I've got to do all the work myself."

"Sherlock," Eponine breathed, watching the detective as he stormed into the kitchen, throwing things from the table to the sink and generally making a mess in his havoc. "Sherlock!"

"What?" His voice was a hiss as Eponine grabbed a box from underneath the skull she had fondly named Yorick and tossed it at the detective, who caught it easily.

"Quit being a prat and smoke. You're being a total arse." She mumbled, crossing her arms. John and Lestrade exchanged looks as Sherlock quietly removed a cigarette, inspecting it as though expecting it to be laced with poison, but lit it anyway and took a long, slow drag from the tip. Eponine sighed, fingers toying the ends of her hair. "So what do we do?"

"Follow him, obviously." Sherlock snuffed out the cigarette after the single long puff. It didn't take much to calm him down, but he was particularly grouchy that day. He sunk into his chair, hands gripping the ends of the arms. "Where's he now?"

"In his hotel, probably." Lestrade answered, staring at Sherlock with skepticism. Sherlock seemed to think for a fraction of a moment and got to his feet, ignoring the rest of the room as they watched him put on his coat.

"Get dressed, we're going out." Sherlock looked at his flat mate and the girl who occupied his couch, though neither of them budged. His movements came to a halt and he waved at them as though his very motion would cause them to flee like lemmings to do whatever he said.

"I can't authorize this, Sherlock. Whatever you do, you do it on your own." Lestrade made to move to the door as John started for the stairs and Eponine withdrew a pair of jeans from her bag. "I can only turn a cold shoulder for so long- he's on the third floor of the Milan, 304. Don't do anything stupid." With that, the door slammed behind him. Eponine took the file on Christian into her hand, fingers lingering over the words as she read it. He hadn't so much as been to jail before. She sighed and changed her clothes in the bathroom, eager to put her mind at rest.

* * *

The streets had been coated in snow over the past week. A cloud of vapor appeared in front of Eponine's parted lips as she walked down the sidewalk, the sound of ever present footsteps beneath their feet as they walked a short distance down the walk. Sherlock hailed a taxi and they clambered inside, thankful of the warmth it provided. As they reached the tall, ornate hotel, Eponine felt discomfort crawl over her skin.

"I don't like this place." John confirmed, standing rather close to Eponine as he watched the posh tourists busy themselves in the lobby. Sherlock said nothing as he approached the lift and pressed the round, silver button to lead them up. The bell sounded as the doors slid open and the three of them clamored into the tight space, riding up to the third floor as Sherlock pressed the next button. Soft music filled the air.

"What are we doing?" Eponine hissed as the doors opened and the detective lead them out. "We can't just knock on the front door!"

"Why not?" Sherlock stopped the trio outside 304, staring at the ornate numbers on the door. He examined the door for a quick moment, fingers running along the edge of the door. "Wood's splintered."

"How, exactly, did you think we were going to get in?" John looked down the long, empty hallway. Not a single soul was to be disturbed. Sherlock ran one hand over the front of his shirt a smile toying at the corners of his lips.

"By walking in the front door." He looked back over his shoulder to the confused faces of his comrades. They watched in horror as Sherlock knocked on death's door three times. The sound of his knuckles on the door pulsed like a heartbeat and then died as they waited in silence.

After an agonizing moment, the door in front of them opened. Eponine's back pressed against the wall opposite the room, eyes soaking in the sight of the man in the door. He was nonchalant, hands in his pockets and a slight smile tugging the corners of his mouth. Black hair framed his face, slight droplets of red freckling the left side of his frail skin. It didn't stop there- a large patch of it had collected around his shoulder and arm, spreading like ink across his torso. There was a gun in his hand, but he held it rather loosely in his palm as though he had no intentions of using it.

"I don't remember ordering room service." He spoke calmly, stepping aside as though inviting guests into his home. "Please, come in. All of you." Agonizingly, Sherlock's eyes lingered on the device in the man's hand before stepping cautiously into the room, his eyes making note of every little detail.

"You are completely insane!" John nearly shouted, swallowing hard as he stared at the blood coated man in front of him. He didn't argue, not risking a chance as his best friend vanished into the hotel room. He took Eponine's hand, pulling her close to him as he ushered her into the room right behind him. She was jerked in the other direction as she passed Christian. His hand was wrapped around her upper arm, holding her still in front of him. Christian tilted his head down, taking in the scent of her hair before tucking it behind her ear and leaning down, his lips mere centimeters from the delicate flesh.

"_I__t was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my _choice." Christian breathed, his words lingering with venom on the surface of her skin. She shuddered as his breath touched her, wanting to shrink away and doing just as such as he let her go and John pulled her toward him again. The door closed behind them and was locked with a harsh _click_ not unlike one from a shotgun. Eponine found herself near retching as she stood with John's hand in her own, Sherlock at her opposing shoulder- their arms were brushing close- it was the best form of comfort she was sure Sherlock was capable of giving. The stench of death lingering in the polluted air of the hotel, a pool of blood beginning to form on the carpet at the edge of the closed bathroom door. Eponine tried not to imagine what unfortunate soul was dying, or had died, in the room.

"I was waiting for you three, you know." Christian sat down on the desk beside the door, tapping the barrel of his gun on his knee and watching the three intruders in the center of the room. Sherlock was staring him in the eye, waiting for just that one mistake that might be his downfall. It wouldn't take much, but with the gun in his hand, he wasn't willing to take that risk. "I'm surprised it took you this long. I could have killed a hundred people by now."

"What do you want from me? I loved you." Eponine's voice cracked, her hand nearly squeezing John's to death in her vice grip. He didn't complain, his own jaw tightened as he fought the urge to take out his own gun. It wouldn't be worth it- he couldn't draw and shoot fast enough. Christian laughed at her question, looking toward the drawn shades that blocked out the city-scape of London.

"Love is just the purest form of _hate_, sweetheart. I already had everything I wanted." The laughter in his eyes flickered for just the slightest moment- but it was enough for Sherlock to notice the sadness behind the insanity. But it was back as soon as it had gone and his eyes seemed to glitter with the red petals on his face. "Let's just say I have a guardian angel. You can't touch me and I need nothing from you."

"I'm not afraid of you." Eponine spat, standing her guard against him. No one so much as took a breath as he crossed the room, taking her face in his hand and pushing her toward the wall. His eyes bore into her face, burning her skin without so much as a touch. His lip curled back, showing his teeth like a mad dog. John curled his hand into a fist, but Sherlock took him by the elbow, nodding at the gun shoved firmly into Eponine's gut. One false move and their attempts would be futile.

"If you have never been afraid, why have you spent your life running from the monsters under your bed and lurking in the closet?" He hissed. "I _am _the boogeyman. Now," He loosened his grip on her, placing a gentle, mocking kiss on her jaw as he began to pull away from her. "Do your friends a favor and stop gambling with their lives." With that, he stepped fully away, lowering his gun once he was safely away from the piercing glares from the other men.

"Oh, I don't think we have anything to worry about." Sherlock seemed to relax, taking a careful step toward the other man. "I doubt _you_ will leave this room without a body bag."

Christian was on his feet before the threat had even passed over Sherlock's lips, the tension in his shoulders doubling. Eponine felt John tug her backwards ever so slightly, all in the same swift moment where the world exploded, time ceasing to exist as everything happened in one moment.

The door had been unlocked from the outside before flying open, spilling in several black-clad men, holding guns pointed at the insane man in the center of the room; in the same moment, Christian's gun had fired, the lamp behind John and Eponine exploding into tiny fragments of glass as John pulled Eponine to the ground. Sherlock's foot had made contact with Christian's chest, but he wouldn't go unscathed as his wrist twisted in the other man's slender, offensive fingers.

Eponine was on her hands and knees, crawling through broken glass and clawing at the side of the bed, pulling herself onto her feet before John had a chance to stop her moving. Four guns were pointed at her ex-boyfriend, who was on his knees with his hands behind his head. Eponine felt herself grow dizzy as she stared over at him, her breath stolen from her by an unknown force. Christian's eyes found her face and for a moment- one tiny infinitesimal fragment of time, immeasurable and insignificant- she remembered why she had loved him in the first place. But the memory and the moment were lost as he looked back at Sherlock Holmes, his eager grin splitting his face in two.

Sherlock held his arm close to his body, trying to ignore the splintering pain in his wrist as he watched Christian as he was shoved into the ground and handcuffed. He left slowly, looking over his shoulder at the trio he had left in the room. "Take care of her, Sherlock Holmes. She'll need it."

Lestrade was waiting for them in the hallway and entered the room after the madman had left the room. He avoided stepping in the conglomerated blood, nose wrinkling in disgust.

"You could have gotten killed, you know." Lestrade sighed. Sherlock didn't seem to notice as he walked about the room, brows furrowed. Eponine sat down on the bed, trying to stop the shaking in her limbs. John sat beside her, looking her over for signs of shock. She would be fine, he decided, turning toward Sherlock with fury in his throat.

"What the hell were you thinking?" John's voice bellowed in the tiny living space. Sherlock stopped his ministrations, letting his hurt wrist fall down to his side. "You just waltzed us in the front door, 'oh hello, hi, I'm here to fix your plumbing!' Did you really think he was going to invite us in for tea?"

"He wasn't going to kill us." Sherlock's voice was flat. "The gun was insurance. We couldn't attack him with a gun in his hand. He was waiting for someone else to get here." Sherlock gestured to the table beside the bed. "Two empty, clean cups, but the coffee was made just before we got here- there's still steam on the inside of the glass. Someone else was coming, he was just buying time with us. He knew we would be here, that's why he had the gun. When we arrived, he knew he had to keep us here until the other person got here. By now I'm sure they'll be canceling their coffee date."

"Christian's not very independent, if you haven't already noticed." Eponine choked out, eying the two, innocent cups. "He never would have done all of this on his own. Whoever they are, they're a lot smarter than he is."

"They're our murderer, and thanks to Scotland Yard," Sherlock's tone was bitter and he flashed Lestrade a look of disdain. He reached out, gently pushing the bathroom door open. "we won't be able to catch them unless you get James to talk."

"How hard can it be?" Lestrade peered through the opening to the dark room, his stomach dropping at the sight of the blood painted across the walls and floor. A woman lay in the bathtub, filled to the brim with water. Only the top of her head was visible through the viscous blood-ridden water.

John avoided the bathroom at all costs, standing slowly and making his way to the window. He pulled the blinds away, peering down onto the street. He watched as two cars pulled away, the last officer getting into his car- no doubt the one that carried their criminal. Lestrade's was parked just behind that one. "He's just leaving, should we follow?" John turned to look at the detective, who seemed exasperated as Sherlock looked to him for an approval.

"Anderson and Dimmick should be here soon to get this place settled. You can come if you think you can get him to say something, but no funny business. I'm already breaking every rule in the book- and some that aren't even written." Lestrade motioned to the door and the four of them made their way down to the car, climbing in and following behind the other vehicle. Eponine could have sworn she saw Christian look through the back window of the car in front of them, a sick smile on his face. But he turned back around, leaving Eponine coated with goosebumps as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"Any ideas, mister 'I'm amazing and no one will ever be as smart as me'?" John looked over the back of the seat at Sherlock in the front.

"Whoever they are, they're slipping. They were either careless or wanted him to get caught. It was too easy to catch our little henchman." Sherlock stared beyond the pane of glass to the outside world as it flickered by. "Christian James isn't the head of this operation. We're looking for someone smart- really smart."

"Who would have a reason to want to hunt people down and kill them?" John cast a look at Eponine. Her eyes were downcast and she bit her lip, trying to fight back the tears behind her eyes. The realization of what had just happened was finally hitting her square in the stomach.

"They don't have to have one." Sherlock said simply. A tear escaped Eponine's eye and Sherlock tried not to look at her reflection in the rear window. He looked away from the pane of glass, focusing on the car ahead of them instead.

* * *

It happened in eight seconds.

They had just turned onto York road, the bustling area of city life that seemed just as crowded as ever. Silence had fallen in the cab only moments before, but the world around them was violently ripped apart as Lestrade drove them down the street, County Hall vanishing in the rear view mirror.

In the first three seconds, there was a violent ricochet. A double-Decker turned the corner onto the street, swerving around two other vehicles with intricate precision. The sound of metal scraping together filled the air as the car in front of the quartet spiraled along the ground, crashing malevolently into a heritage building. The front of the bus was caved in, but it spiraled forward, impaling itself against the car a second time, smashing the car between it and the crumbling side of the building. A scream left Eponine' throat in the next two seconds, but as the fifth second was beginning, Lestrade's car came to a screeching halt, the rear end swerving as the screeching of tires occupied the air.

The last three seconds flashed by with a breath of burning air in Eponine's lungs. The car jerked violently in a direction that no one could have pinpointed. Eponine's eyes closed, a burning pain filling her stomach, the world spinning around her, hair flying around her as her body was forced in directions she was sure it shouldn't be going, glass breaking and her body suddenly submerged by frozen air. It was filled with screams, screeching metal and the thundering rage of chaos.

Her eyes didn't open as the world finally began to slow down. It wasn't possible to know how long that had taken. She could hear Lestrade yelling over the sounds of sirens in the distance and the yelling of passersby, but his words were inaudible. When she finally allowed herself to see, all she saw was the blue sky overhead. A dry laugh escaped her at the irony and she tried to move, her limbs sore and heart racing against time itself.

When he had stumbled into reality after the crash, John was only three or four feet away, already on his hands and knees and protesting the pain in his torso. He was on his feet before John could even ask if he was alright, the two men helping each other gain their balance. They looked over one another, deciding that they would be alright, but they would be very sore for the next week or longer.

"Eponine?" John's voice filled with panic upon realizing she was nowhere within their sight. "Sherlock, where is she?"

She couldn't see either of them as she heard John calling out for her and the concrete beneath her felt cold. Trying not to breathe, Eponine squeezed her eyes against the pain as it tore through her ribcage, hoping someone would find her from her place on the ground on the other side of the broken car they'd just been in.

"Eponine?" It was Sherlock's voice now, thundering through her ears like a jaguar trapped in a guitar. "Eponine!" There was something in his voice, she realized, that she had never heard before. Could it possibly have been _fear?_

Sherlock's legs pounded against the ground, ignoring the pain in his legs as he tore through the crowd of people and metal that had filled the street. An ambulance had arrived, EMTs rushing to the crumbled car smashed between the wall and bus. Lestrade was sat on the back of the vehicle to be inspected, but he was still shouting that he was fine. No one was listening to anybody else, the terror of events just transpired still lingering on the street as a heavy threat.

Sherlock saw her laying on the sidewalk some distance away from the overturned car they had all been thrown out of- save Lestrade, the only one who had worn his _damned seat belt._ John was on the ground next to her before Sherlock could register that she was bleeding from her shoulder, tearing the fabric of her shirt back from her sticky skin. John was shouting at him, but the sounds of the world and the buzzing in his ears seemed to block it out. With a shake of his head, Sherlock snapped back into reality, his brain working at full speed. They helped Eponine to her feet, half-carrying, half-walking her toward the ambulance.

"Thank God," John was breathing. "we're all find. Bruises, scrapes and soreness we can deal with. Loss of limb and death, not so much." His joke was dry as they limped up to the ambulance. Sherlock counted each passing moment, wondering how long it would take before their bodies caught up to the cataclysm revolving around them.

An EMT took her from them, putting her down in the place Lestrade had just been. She was looking up at them, her face eerily void of any emotion. Sherlock was suddenly aware of the pain of having the wind knocked out of him from being thrown around in the car and took in the minute wounds on John's torso and the limp in his leg was apparent at that moment. After a moment, he realized that Eponine was not looking at them, but had been staring at the crumbled car pinned against the wall. She ignored the EMT asking her if she was alright and taking care of her shoulder. An alcohol wipe was taken to the scrapes on her cheek and she didn't so much as flinch as her shoulder was being prodded at. A blanket was put over her shoulders, but she didn't seem to notice as the EMTs left her, Sherlock and John alone for a moment to look among the crowd for any other injuries. There were two men who had almost been crushed by the tumbling car, waiting on the ground a short distance away. Four police cars surrounded the area, the officers trying to control the crowded street and direct traffic. Lestrade was among them, wounded but not detrimental- he had been lucky.

"What just happened?" John finally asked, the three sets of eyes taking in the wreckage around them.

"I think," Sherlock spoke slowly, not looking at the doctor as he eased himself to sit next to Eponine. John followed suit, sitting on the other side of Sherlock. "We were in a crash."

"That's bloody obvious, thank you!" John belted, his voice shaking. Eponine's fingers curled around the ends of her sleeves, gripping them tightly.

"I said crash. Not accident." Sherlock said easily, watching as a crew of firemen attempted to pull the officer from the front seat of the other car. It was almost impossible to make out what had once been a person's body. The officer had died the moment the bus had smashed into his car. "It seems our murderer wasn't too keen on being found out. We weren't the only targets."

"They were _trying_ to kill us? Where are the bus drivers?" John looked at the two red vehicles that had been the cause of their plight. "Are they being arrested?"

"Do try to keep up John. Probably either dead or gone rogue." Sherlock's chest heaved with pain and his eyes tightened, teeth pressing sharp. Eponine glanced at him, witness to a moment of vulnerability. She had forgotten, until that moment, how incredibly human the man really was. Her hand found his shoulder and squeezed it, offering the only sentiment Sherlock was willing to accept.

"Are you alright?" A surge of pain shot through Eponine's voice as she spoke, but she suppressed the urge to scream it away. Sherlock seemed to look for something in her words. In reality, his eyes were memorizing every curve of her face: the colors that made up her skin, the wounds gracing her skin, where each freckle made home over her nose and cheek bones, and every speck of color in her iris. An electric look swarmed through Sherlock's brain as he planted her firmly in the palace that made home in his mind.

"Fine." The word shook on his lips, but his eyes were watered down and filled to the brim with torment. He didn't need to ask her if she was okay. It wasn't that he knew the answer would be no, but it was a communication that wasn't necessary. Sherlock allowed her to keep her hand on his shoulder, knowing she needed it just as much, if not more than, he did. The only warmth of the bitter street came from her touch and even he wasn't keen on shoving the security of it away.

"He's dead, isn't he?" Eponine stared at the broken car as the officer was laid out onto a stretcher, his body covered with a sheet as he was moved away from it. The detective knew she wasn't talking about the unfortunate officer. Eponine didn't look at Sherlock as he nodded. A hiccup escaped her throat as a tear finally fell from her eye, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. Sherlock stared down at her as they began to flow over her cheeks, staining her pink face with slim, liquid trails. Shock had finally passed by her and the realization of what had happened was finally wrapping around her skin. She cried into her hands, body shaking and silent as she tried to regain her breath. Sherlock felt more uncomfortable watching her cry than he had all day- and that was saying something. It felt odd, he noticed rather shortly, that her cries had that effect on him. He had made many clients and acquaintances cry in the course of one lifetime, but they were easily dismissed and he got on with his life without so much of a blink of guilt or remorse.

"He would have gone quickly," Sherlock assured her. Eponine's palms pressed against her eyes and she nodded to show she was listening through the pools of water licking her palms and face. "No pain." _Even if he deserved it._ Sherlock kept the thought to himself, tearing his eyes away from the crying woman beside him. He couldn't fathom her tears for the life of him. The man in the wreckage had helped aid in four deaths, killed one woman on his own, and was trying to kill her- why the _hell_ would she cry over his loss? It was beyond him, but Sherlock was almost absolutely sure it had something to do with love.


	13. Nightmare of Choice

She was frozen, her body pressed hard against the wall. No matter how hard she tried to thrash, her arms felt heavy. As her mouth opened to scream, she felt sand drain from her throat and spill into the room. Unforgiving eyes stared at her with hatred dripping from each fiber. He was inches from her face, his voice locusts in her ears as his lips grazed her jaw.

"_I am under your bed." _The sound was distorted and inhuman, seeping through the layers of her skin and poisoning the blood as it coursed through her veins. The sound burned and she wanted to claw it out of her brain, trying whatever she could to shy away from the vile thing that had once been a man. He was mangled, his jaw barely hanging on by the threads of tissue and muscle of his face. One boney hand was pressed against the wall next to her face, exposing the skeleton that was already beginning to decompose. The skin stuck to him like wet paper, sliding across the twisted muscle."_I am in your closet and under the stairs."_

A scream burst from her throat as his teeth bit down on the lobe of her ear, tugging ever so slightly. No sound came from her bursting lungs as his body loomed closer and closer to hers. There was no heat to be felt from the ripped-open cage of his torso. She could taste his blood, dripping onto the end of her tongue from no where. Darkness crept over her until she was blind, only the sinister cerulean eyes ripping through her soul were left unscathed by the shadows. "_I am your monster."_

The world came into focus beyond the pale light of Eponine's vision. The fireplace and furniture of the flat came together slowly, blurring together and then ripping apart. Her clothes stuck to her skin with sweat, her breath heavy on her heart. She pushed the hair from her face, feeling the cool air caress her cheeks. A soft, abrupt melody met her ears and Eponine found that she was not alone.

Sherlock sat in his chair beside the fireplace, violin in his lap as he plucked at it subconsciously. She was sure he didn't hear her as she shoved her offending blanket on the floor, pulling her body up from the couch. She padded through the room without so much as a wink, steadying herself at the kitchen sink. The light flickered above her, rocking the focus of her vision. Her arms shook and she fought back the tears of waking. Reaching up, she took a cup from the cabinet and downed a cold glass.

He hadn't moved as she came back into the room. She stood in the doorway for some time, watching him. A blue gown wrapped around his shoulders and over the side of the chair, exposing the bare chest underneath. She watched him, so at ease with the world he had been thrown into. He stopped plucking at the violin and his eyes met hers, seemingly unfazed under her watchful gaze.

"How do you do it?" Eponine felt a shiver run over her exposed legs, arms and throat. Sherlock tapped his fingers lightly on the arm of his chair. "It's been two weeks since the wreck. You're so oblivious to everyone you care about suffering and people dying around you. How do you do it?" There was no envy or spite in Eponine's question, each chord shaking with the urge to cry the haunting visions away.

"I'm not oblivious," Sherlock corrected, watching Eponine as she came around John's chair across from him and placed herself on the floor in front of him. She was innocent, her eyes glowing with genuine wonder as she listened to him. "Emotions get in the way, that doesn't mean I don't still feel them."

"I've seen you feel guilty a few times. And you've been happy and sometimes you look sad." Eponine looked down into her lap as she spoke, unwilling to accept the burning gaze of the crystalline eyes of her friend. "It's relieving, actually, to know you can feel the same way. You're just so much better at hiding it."

"My brother, Mycroft, has told me numerous times that caring is not an advantage." Sherlock informed her. Eponine's brows rose at the very mention: it was the first time she had ever heard of Sherlock having family, though she did suppose that he was just like everyone else, deep down. He could feel pain and, recently experienced, terror. _Terror._ He had screamed her name after the wreck, his voice so distant and sounding so much unlike the one he carried now. There had been _fear _and _worry _dripping in each syllable when he had called out to her. Eponine connected this to the inevitable. Sherlock might believe that caring isn't an advantage, but that didn't mean he didn't care anyway. She smiled at this revelation: Sherlock cared, despite his best efforts to hide behind an apathetic mask.

"You're not a machine," Eponine started, wrapping her arms around her knees. "But you're so far off in your own world. That... Mind palace. All the time. Is that how you escape it?"

"What's your point?" Sherlock tilted his head down at her and she shrugged, her eyes trailing over his hands and the violin. He pondered for a moment if she was correct in her assumptions, which, she probably was.

"Where do you go in that funny head of yours?" Eponine shifted slightly to appeal her comfort. Sherlock thought her question was incredibly silly. He didn't answer at first, resisting the urge to play the violin in full. Her question stuck to the forefront of his mind and he found it hard to look anywhere without her being in his peripherals.

"Wherever I need to be at that time." He stated simply, eyes ghosting her face. She smiled at this, nodding.

"You've got room for everything in there, don't you? I wish I could be that clever." She sighed, rubbing her hands over her thighs. "Nobody but you could be that clever."

"Thank you." His voice was quiet, as though he wasn't sure what her words- or his thanks- actually meant as far as sentiment could stretch. They sat in silence, then. Sherlock made no motions to continue fiddling his violin, choosing to set it to rest within reach. His hands came to peak under his chin and eyes forward, not really noticing the woman at his feet. Eponine glanced at him from time to time, her mind and heart racing as she considered the events of the past week.

"Do you ever have nightmares?" She straightened her back, a child waiting for words of wisdom from their mentor. Sherlock seemed to stumble out of his mind then, blinking against the light coming in through the far windows. "What are they about?"

Then, something very rare happened. Sherlock wasn't sure if he knew. He hated not knowing, and he looked through the deepest reaches of his mind, peering around corners to see if he could answer her question. He could hear a dog barking somewhere in the distance, hear his brother's voice echoing off the walls somewhere in a memory. John's face was obscured in the shadows with blood running over his nose and his eyes distant; Irene Adler was lost in red lipstick and a cloud of toxic perfume. There was a blur of motion around him and he swore he could see dark tendrils of hair curling on the pavement, mixed with blood and screeching car tires. He could hear the screams of people who he had failed to save and those he had helped destroy. There was pain, panic, chaos, and Jim Moriarty laughing with his hand around Sherlock's throat-

"I don't remember them. If I ever do, I've deleted them." Sherlock spoke slowly as the coming sun cast a ray of orange light on Eponine's face. She was looking at him through it, disbelieving of every syllable, but she left well enough alone and tore her gaze away just long enough to push herself from the ground.

"Coffee?" She offered, not waiting for an answer as she stalked into the kitchen. Sherlock watched her retreat and return again moments later, the sunlight warming her skin so that the signs of being cold had finally been whisked away. "It's not over, is it? Somebody's still out there waiting to turn me into a rag doll."

"No," He answered, silently thanking her for taking away the awkward shiver on his shoulders. His mind went straight back to the place it had been while she had slept, putting together facts they (he) already knew. Without waiting for her to ask, Sherlock stood up and made his way back to the wall that still held an arrangement of maps with writing covering a majority of the pages. Eponine followed behind him, watching his eyes dance as his mind worked like a metronome: back and forth, never slowing down or stopping. "Our murderer was watching us. He knew Christian was going to get caught, which is to say he's much more clever than him. We were going to question Christian and he would have told us all we need to know. But can't have that, can we? So, he kills his right-hand man instead of risk being caught. The game isn't over yet. So... What are you planning?" Sherlock spoke quickly, more to himself than to Eponine. The stairs above them creaked and Eponine spotted John at the top, rubbing sleepily at his eyes and fully dressed.

"Morning, John." She called up, not bothering to wait for him to reach the bottom landing. He waved halfheartedly at her with a yawn. "There's coffee on, if you like."

"You... Are an angel." John groaned, turning immediately into the kitchen. He poured some coffee for himself, sipping at it with care as steam rose into his face. As he came back into the living space, Sherlock was still staring at the wall, trying to piece together the next move of a murderer. "I've got clinic today, you be alright while I'm out?" He spoke to the girl behind the detective, who turned to him with a smile on her face.

"Yeah, I'm alright. Ben wants to take me to lunch, if that's alright." She glanced at Sherlock, who remained wordless, but his lips pressed into a tight frown. "I've got my phone and we're just going to the Canteen. I'll text you every ten minutes if I've got to." She laughed at them, but John seemed unconvinced. She strode across the room, clinging onto John's arm with a pout on her lips. "Please? I'll only be out for an hour, I swear. We can even have code words for if something's gone wrong. I feel like an animal in this place."

"Have him over." Sherlock's voice was flat as he turned away from the maps, sticking his hands into his pockets. "You can put on tea and watch crap telly. It's too dangerous to go out."

"I swear, sometimes I think I've got two more Dads." Eponine mumbled, taking out her phone to text Ben. Sherlock strode to his bedroom and John pulled his coat on, glancing between the two of them.

"Yeah, well sometimes I think I might have two children." John smirked at Eponine as she stuck her tongue out at him. "Thanks for the coffee, I'll ring at lunch."

"I'll do my best at babysitting." She called after him, dropping the phone lazily on top of _Heart of Darkness. _Eponine set to making breakfast, deciding not to bother Mrs. Hudson to do it, but it was only a matter of time before the older woman was in the flat anyway and the two women set to cleaning up the mess Sherlock had made over the past few days.

* * *

"Sherlock, will you please sit still! You're giving me a headache." Eponine growled, throwing a pillow lazily at the detective. He stalked up and down the room, getting no where and driving the other room occupants mad. Ben stood in the kitchen doorway, amusement playing on his lips. He handed a cuppa to Eponine, who sipped at it with her brows furrowed, eying the impatient detective.

"There's got to be something missing." Sherlock mused, not really listening to the woman on his couch. He had put on clothes since that morning, thankfully saving Eponine the embarrassment of her half-naked friend parading about in broad daylight while she had a guest. Ben took a drink from his own cup, choosing to stand, eyes bouncing back and forth with Sherlock's movements.

"I give him eleven minutes, he'll be shooting your walls." Ben laughed, leaning his back against the faded wallpaper. Eponine fiddled with the blanket spread across her lap.

"I give him three." She sighed, resting the cup on the table beside her. Ben scratched the back of his head.

"A killer, desperate to be caught. They love that." Sherlock turned to face Eponine, relaying his thoughts to her. _Well, at least I out-friend Yorick. _"Killing stops being enough, that's why Christian came out of the shadows, made himself known. But his partner, he's clever, but he wouldn't have let him come talk to you in the Canteen if he didn't want to step out too. He's just being more careful, more subtle. He's leaving his mark, dropping clues, but where.. Where are they?" He was talking too fast for Eponine to keep up and she shook her head as he put his back to her.

"Will you relax?" Eponine groaned. "Watch crap telly or play your violin. Something other than putting a hole in the floor with all that pacing."

"Physically impossible, my weight and the friction of my strides aren't nearly enough to..." He trailed off, catching her unamused glare. Sherlock shot a glance in her direction in response, tilting his chin toward her. Eponine stood up, skirting around Ben and planting herself in front of the television, resting her chin on top of her knees.

"I'll put a hole in your head, Sherlock Holmes. No wonder Mrs. Hudson and John run off, you'd have driven them nuts by now." Eponine yawned, watching Sherlock in the corner of her eye as she flipped through the television channels. Ben kept in his place, masking the deep rooted disdain of the detective. Sherlock said nothing to the other man, choosing to ignore him instead of point out the obvious glare in Ben's face or the way he crossed his arms and his shoulders stayed rigid. Eponine had specifically requested (_threatened and bribed)_ Sherlock to keep his mouth shut. At this point, the resentment the two men held toward one another was painstakingly obvious, though neither man cared to point it out for the sake of their mutual friend.

Eponine had fallen asleep in her place, curled in front of the television. Sherlock approached her, pausing beside the table as her phone lit up. The screen read a text from John, asking if she was doing alright. Sherlock texted back a response, turning toward Ben. The other man was making his way toward him and the sleeping girl, hands in his pockets. "Well, now that Mummy is sleeping, I see no reason for us to play nice. You can see your way out or I can show you." Sherlock made no attempt to hide his contempt for the other man. Ben's quirked smile faltered, but he stood still in front of the detective. Sherlock's inner defense rose, spiking something electric through his brain. His mind began to work in succession, pieces of his puzzle clicking together.

Sherlock turned his head toward the sleeping form on his floor, curled around herself and eyes closed tightly as though submerged in a nightmare. The eyes behind the thin skin and lashes did not move as rapidly as they might have otherwise. _Heart of Darkness _sat innocently on the coffee table, corners bent in from weeks of reading and rereading the text. "_From Ben. About gave me a heart attack." _Sherlock felt his mouth twitch as he turned to face Ben again. The other man was grinning, his green eyes boring into Sherlock's skull. Eponine began to stir behind him, rolling over in her sleep. It was in that moment that he made a grave mistake: his eyes left Ben for just a moment, flickering down to the form as she began to come to.

Pain ripped through the back of Sherlock's head, flashes of light appearing in his vision as his body failed to respond to the orders of his brain and he collapsed, trying desperately to catch himself before he hit the floor with a resounding thud. The world spun around him in shades of colors he couldn't remember the names of, hands clutching at whatever was close by. As the world began to blur and sounds became far away echoes, he pinpointed Ben's shoes as he walked toward the slightly moving body, the sound of her unintelligible voice racing through his eardrums and the crash of something breaking on the solid ground erupted through the flat. Blood stuck to the wound on the back of his head and _Heart of Darkness _fell onto the floor just out of reach, mocking him, as the table was disrupted by a trashing body. He could make out the blurring shapes of one body falling limp, the panicked voice falling silent as the other shape lifted the form from the ground. He felt himself sinking into an abyss as they moved further and further away from him. An insatiable need to find his feet and clamber after his attacker washed over Sherlock, but his body and mind betrayed him as the door to the flat thundered closed and he was left, not for the first time in his life, terribly alone. He reached out, hoping whatever he needed was floating somewhere nearby.

* * *

John was incredibly bored. He held his head in the palm of his hand, staring blankly at the clipboard in his hand. The patient sat on the paper bedding, legs over the side and dressed in a paper scrub. John ran his hand over his face, trying to regain the focus he had lost from the very moment he had gotten up that morning, blinking against the flourescent lights. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he sighed, retrieving it while his patient spoke. The words blurred together as John opened the message, his heart beginning to thunder in its cage.

**Bakr st. hurry. -s**

The message was sent from Eponine's phone. John let the device slide back into the white coat, discarding the clipboard on the counter, muttering empty apologies to the patient as he pushed out of the room, tails flying behind him. He grabbed the arm of the red haired nurse in pink scrubs- he couldn't think of her name just then.

"Emergency, got to go." was all he could manage, feeling a buzz fill his ears as he plowed through the hospital, not bothering to grab his coat or discard the tag around his neck. The cool wind his his face as he stormed from the building and began to hail a cab. He gave the address to the cabby, his toes tapping impatiently on the floorboard. The cab came to a standstill halfway there and John cursed under his breath, paying the cabby before jumping out of the cab and taking off in a run. His mind raced: he knew it was likely that Sherlock needed something trivial like a pen or, like he had done in the past, for him to send a text. But Eponine was there and perfectly able, and his use of her phone and improper grammar had John's heart sinking further and further into the dark shadows of his chest, protesting the labour of his legs pounding on the ground as he raced the clock to Baker street.

"Sherlock!" His voice radiated through the entire building, slamming around the staircase and storming through the front door as John threw it open. He had been right to panic, he realized as soon as his body allowed him to halt. The charcoal coat sprawled on the floor around Sherlock's rather limp body, blood sticking to the back of the dark man's head. John raced to his side, sliding on his knees as he got closer. He felt the back of Sherlock's head with two fingers and was up helping the detective sit up. He groaned, leaning on John for support. "God, what the _hell_ happened?!"

"Piss." Sherlock groaned. John was already taking care of his friend, hands shaking as he found a needle and thread and began to tend to the back of his head. "No _time!"_ He protested, but didn't withdraw from the needle at the back of his head. John tied off the knot, biting it to break it off. Sherlock stumbled to his feet toward the door, using John's shoulder as they moved. Sherlock snatched the book from the ground, the pages flying as he flipped them past the last marker where Eponine had read.

"Sher_lock!"_ John grabbed the other man's shoulder. "What happened? Where's Eponine?"

"He took her." Sherlock breathed, shaking his head to try to clean the lights away. It might have worked if he had slowed down, but his own heart was fighting him as the two men started down the steps. "Ben. Ben. It was him, the whole time. He was right in our faces, John. He lead her to the Canteen to meet Christian, took her to her house to get the package Christian left on her bed, and gave her _Heart of Darkness _for Christmas. It was all there and I _missed it._"

John frowned at his friend, trying to ignore the obvious pain written on Sherlock's face. He was struggling, though John was sure it had very little to do with the blow to the back of his head. He had seen Sherlock in a multitude of situations and express more emotion than anyone else ever had as far as he knew, but the darkness that had made home in the other man's eyes was unappealing and, quite frankly, frightening.

"Ben? Gay barman, 'Sherlock Holmes is a prat,' Eponine's best friend, Ben? _Why_?" John followed his flat mate back into the cold air. Sherlock was spattering now, disappointment and anger flaring across the edges of his eyelashes and bringing color to his pale skin. "He could have killed both of you right then and there, why didn't he?"

"Too many chances of being caught." Sherlock answered, the wind swirling under the curls of his hair and in his eyes. John tugged his coat sleeves over the ice of his knuckles as he stuck close to his flat mate's side. "He knew that you knew he was there. If you came home and found us dead, it would be obvious who was responsible."

"Where would he take her?"John squinted through the rapid wind as the two men began to march down the sidewalk. Sherlock fingered the book in his hands, holding it up for John to see.

"He already told us. He knows we're coming. He wants a game, but he has no idea who he's playing with."


	14. The Psychopaths Three

_Wow, its been a couple days, but I'm so happy with the reviews on the last chapter! This one is super long and SUPER fulla' stuff, so I hope you like it! The case is coming to a close, but we're not even close to the end of this story yet! What awaits our lovely funny-named couple? ;)_

* * *

For the second time in her life, she was gagged and bound. Three months ago, Eponine had been tortured brutally by the boredom that had made home in her core. She had ached for a life that had seemed so distant and unreachable. Her life had been dull, stretching infinitely in every direction in a flat line.

Her laugh was dry and muffled as this irony swept over her. She kept her eyes closed at first, listening and waiting, trying to remember how she had gotten where she was. The floor seemed to shift back and forth under her chair as hallow faces and memories passed through her mind. She remembered seeing John and Sherlock on the television; she could see Antony's eyes watching her blindly on the sidewalk and feel the sticky, viscous blood as it coated her hands. Sherlock's deduction slapped her in the face and she memorized every wrinkle in his dressing gown. The door to 221B loomed ominously over her, but she just couldn't reach it. Sherlock's hands drew the bow across his violin and he watched her carefully as they spoke in front of the fireplace. John's laugh filled her ears and a pain shot through her heart as her hands twitched, something tightly wrapped around her wrists.

She opened her eyes, slowly, then. Eponine cursed inwardly at the realization that it was too dark to tell where she was. Wondering vaguely how long she had been unconscious, she knew that Sherlock and John were, no doubt, already on their way to find her. Shifting uncomfortably in the wooden chair, she swiveled her head, trying to find some way of knowing where she was. Panic and anxiety were shoved aside for later to make room for thought, though it didn't do as much to slow down the thoughts racing through Eponine's head as she tried to remember _exactly _who and what had brought her there.

The memory floated through the forefront of her mind, barely graspable. She had woken up in front of the television and all had seemed normal, until she turned and found Sherlock on the floor. He was still moving about, trying desperately to maintain cognitive thought. There was blood at the back of his head, sticking to his hair. She had shouted his name, but a hand had silenced her. Something had fallen off the fireplace as she was dragged toward the door, but she had given the table a shove with one foot before something hit her temple.

After that, there was nothing.

A blinding light interrupted Eponine's train of thought, forcing her to close her eyes against the offending spectrum. The source was a bulb just above her, casting shadows into the unknown. Eponine blinked as her eyes searched the room, but it didn't take long for her to find the man sitting just on the edge of darkness. He leaned forward, overhead and face obscured, undoing the binding around her mouth and sitting wordlessly back in his chair. She fought the urge to let out a scream, choosing instead to inspect what little of the man she could make out: grey pants to a rather nice suit, clean pressed with nice shoes. The blazer matched the pants, of course, with a white shirt beneath. His hair was cut short, pushed backward from his face and slick. His smile was crooked and toothy, just the slightest touch of facial hair above his lip and highlighting his chin.

"Goooood morning!" His voice was high and mocking, eyes trained on Eponine's face. Her head was kept stooped down, hair falling over her face. "I'd offer you coffee but you look a bit tied up." He laughed then, a dry, forced sound radiating from his throat. Eponine was not amused, glaring at him through the tendrils falling between them. He leaned forward and into the light. Familiarity crossed over her and she bit hard at the back of her jaw. His fingers wiggled, palm facing her in a sarcastic, childish wave. "Hi! I know you've got a voice, I've heard it's rather dull."

"Piss off." Eponine chewed, nose wrinkling. He didn't falter, mouth opening in a rather large 'O.' "Sherlock will find you and he will end you. I believe you two have met?"

"Oh, yesssss. Sherlock Holmes and I have a love-hate relationship." He glanced down at the watch fastened around his wrist, tapping it with one finger. "Unfortunately, I have to cancel our date. I've got lots of work to do and other children clawing for my attention."

Eponine swallowed as he folded his hands neatly in his lap. Confidence was showering over him, and it was enough to disrupt the ease she had convinced Sherlock would have. "Don't look so sad, sweetheart. Benji will be here to welcome our little friend.."

"What do you want?" Her question was loud, the echo of her voice disrupting the calmness that had previously shadowed the room. He looked at her carefully then, inspecting each eyelash and each ragged breath. He leaned forward, his face a mere inch from hers. She could have spit in his eye if he wanted to.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you." His voice was slick, the dark pools of his eyes looking into Eponine's soul from the close proximity. He could make out the reflection of her sincere fear- if he blinked, their lashes would embrace. He glanced down at his wrist again, standing this time. "Better be off, don't want to be late. I'll be sure Benny-boy gives Sherlock your love." He started for the door at the other end of the room, each stride careful and slow. "Would you like me to leave the light on?" He didn't wait for an answer, vanishing into the darkness of the rest of- where ever they were.

* * *

The two men walked side by side, their paces brisk but subtle. Anyone who was watching with a casual eye would think nothing of them, but a trained man might have seen the longer steps, the thundering veins in their necks, or the urgency in their voices as they spoke to one another. The Thames river on their left moved innocently forward, projecting the afternoon sun into their faces.

"How do you know she's here?" John followed his friend dutifully toward the docks, the smell of the river wafting through his nose. It wasn't particularly pleasant, but it had yet to offend him as much either. Sherlock didn't answer as they stopped a short distance away, sitting on one of the benches that lined one of the many wooden platforms. John looked among the yachts: clearly, he scoffed, an area for the rich. Sherlock tapped two fingers on the cover of the book in his hands, only half paying attention to his companion.

"_Heart of Darkness _begins with the main character on a ship at the mouth of the Thames." Sherlock said simply. John nodded, trying to cover his shaking shoulders with a cough.

"We can't just break into a hundred boats in broad daylight. What do we do when we find the one she's on? I'm pretty sure he's still trying to kill us."

"I was thinking we could talk it out over tea and biscuits." Sherlock remarked, watching some of the men tend to their boats. He gave a stiff nod at the water, his eyes landing on a sail. The boat floated gently, sails blowing in the soft wind. "That's the one."

"How do you know it's that one?" John followed Sherlock, standing up casually as they made their way down the dock toward the pristine, white boat. As they approached, the boat only seemed to grow in size, towering over the two men. A single light on the top floor revealed what they already knew: they were expected. The name was scrawled across the side of the yacht in silver letters: _Nellie. "_Sherlock, we can't just walk in the front door."

"Sure we can." Sherlock turned to John, putting the boat to his back. "The door's practically opened for us."

* * *

Ben sipped idly at the margarita in his hand as the door slid open, allowing some of the sun to fall into the room. The fluorescent lights overhead did little for his complexion. He didn't bother glancing up from the green liquid in his glass, swirling the straw between his thumb and index finger.

"I really do hate apple." Ben sat the glass next to him, crossing his legs as Sherlock closed the door behind him, his eyes immediately beginning to take in the surroundings: another door made home in the opposite corner, closed but not locked, a small glass window showing a dining hall on the other side. The room was decorated with two mirrors on the long walls, a large, plush couch placed against the far wall with a soft ottoman in front of it; two love seats sat opposite one another beneath one of the mirrors. A rug splayed across the wooden floor and a chandelier hung overhead, twinkling with faux candlelight. Ben studied him carefully, taking in the way his eyes seemed to see everything. Sherlock removed his coat, placing it over the back of the couch as though he were invited in by an old friend. "Do you like it? It was a gift from an old friend of mine. I don't think you've met, but I'd love to introduce you."

Sherlock stowed this factoid in the back of his mind for later, choosing to ignore the cynical man in front of him. He didn't miss the gun in the other man's hand as he lowered himself into the seat just below him. "How interesting," he started, watching the nervous twitch of Ben's hand on the gun. He suppressed a smirk at the other man's expense. "that you should choose _Heart of Darkness _to give to a friend you've betrayed. Don't you know what happens to the man at the end?"

"We were never friends," Ben tilted his chin at the detective. The two men sat across from one another, tension sparking through the air. "But my adviser pointed me in her direction and, well.. He's never wrong."

"Adviser?" Sherlock took note of his own pulse as it doubled. He was sure his eyes had dilated and forced his jaw to relax, but considered himself lucky that the other man seemed rather oblivious.

"Oh yes," Ben smirked. "I'd introduce you, but he's away on business. He said you'd understand."

Sherlock could see the _adviser _in the shadows somewhere, watching them with a lopsided, satisfied smirk. His dark eyes would be boring into Sherlock's skull, hair slicked back and suit polished clean. His brows furrowed for the slightest moment before a mask slid over his cheekbones.

"So he sent you to take me out, did he? Didn't feel like getting his hands dirty, so he sends his henchmen?" Sherlock's teeth clicked as he spoke, watching Ben squirm ever so slightly in his seat. _Gotcha._

"He's a busy man," Ben argued, finally rising from his seat. Sherlock watched him delicately, taking in every movement. "So he employed our assistance. It's too bad Christian had to get greedy with Eponine. He might have lived."

"You managed to kill six people. The police could be on their way right now and you'd have no where to go." Sherlock narrowed his eyes with distrust. Ben scoffed.

"And here I thought you were a genius. I know you didn't call the police. If you did, I'd just blow your head off and take your girlfriend with me. My associate knows how to hide people in plain sight, Mr. Holmes." He glanced out the window to the waters below, paying rather little attention to the detective. The power was in his hand in the form of a bullet, and there was nothing Sherlock Holmes could to do stop him. "This boat is huge- she could be anywhere on it, and your doctor friend is playing cat and mouse right now, looking for her while he's been tailed by the lions."

* * *

John cursed Sherlock. Over and over, the words left in a hot breath too quiet for anyone to hear, but John pretended it was the most satisfied he was going to get. The hallway he had found was long and ornate, plastered with silky, pale yellow wallpaper and carpet the color of blood. He tried not to look at it too long, taking careful steps as he passed the doors. There were three on either side of the hall, each of them pulled tightly closed. He couldn't make heads or tails of which one to open, his hand lingering over each knob for a period of about three seconds a piece before he decided instinctively that none of them were right.

_If I were a hostage, where would I be?_

He groaned inwardly, feeling the cold metal of his gun on his hip as he leaned against a wall in defeat. His eyes went over the doors again and then at the opening at the end of the hallway. It was a ballroom, decorated simply with polished floors and a marvelous piano. He hadn't bothered trying there, choosing to ignore the sunlight space. John put his back to the vast room as he stalked the hallway yet again. It wasn't as though he could abandon the area without knowing for sure, and he didn't know how much time he had left. The only choices he had were to either check the doors or head back up to the main deck, but he doubted she would be kept anywhere the sun could reach. There was a sound from above and John felt his heart begin to race as the stairs at the other end of the hall began to creak with heavy footsteps. Swallowing hard, he took a leap of faith and ducked into the closest room on the left.

Thankfully, the room John had chosen was dark. It appeared to be a bunk room, but there were no sheets on the bed or clothing hanging from the racks: clearly disused. The door remained cracked just enough that John's dark eye could peer into the brightly lit area he had run from. A figure emerged from the stairwell. The man was large and bald, dressed sharply in a suede suit, his expression placid. He stalked down the hall to the door opposite John, who was simultaneous pissed for choosing the left door instead of the right and yet glad he wasn't behind that door as the man tore it open. Even John wasn't sure he could have fended the man off, military training or not.

He waited in the dark bunk room for what felt like an eternity, the sound of silence meeting his ears as he strained to hear. There was a slight sound from the other room and he moved the door the slightest bit open, but froze again as shadows cast on the wood of the other door. He watched as the burly man appeared again, this time with another body at his side. His rough, calloused hand was wrapped around Eponine's bicep, squeezing with unnecessary force as he dragged her alongside him. Her feet fumbled under her as she tried to keep up, her head hung with her chin to her chest and fists clenched. She didn't make a sound as he took her up the steps, shoving her forward and tugging her along when she got a step or two behind. Even through the tiny space in the door he could make out the red lines around her wrists and the blood dripping down her neck, no doubt from her temple.

John watched with his jaw tightened until they had vanished onto the second floor before stepping out of the dark room, toeing carefully behind the two figures. He kept his hand on his gun, resting carefully and taking in deep, shallow breaths. They passed through a wide arch into a slender dining room before vanishing through a door at the opposite end of the room. John let go of the breath he was holding, skirting around the arch and through the room, putting his back against the wall beside the door. The metal on his side only grew warmer and warmer as he listened, trying to ignore the blood pumping through his ears. He could make out the back of the bald man's head through the tiny window on the door, hoping against all odds that no one would come near the door and see him beyond the thin sheet of glass.

* * *

Sherlock felt cold. It was the only word he could properly put to the tender touch of his flesh: the stale oxygen in his lungs, the unmoving air in the crevices of his hair, a solid, static beating heart and the tips of his fingers curled into his palm. He knew- was aware- of what was happening in the frame of reality. Ben was watching him with tilted, catlike eyes and curiosity that might kill him like one (_if only_) and a gun nestled in his hands. Eponine had been brought to him, as predicted. Any man with mediocre intelligence could have figured out that leaving her freely on the ship with John on board was an invitation for her freedom, and Ben's choice to bring her right to him was inevitable. It was part of Sherlock's trap; cat and mouse.

She wasn't crying, but there were shining tracks down her cheeks that suggested she had been, the tiniest bit of black tracing the edge of the place a tear had made home. Sherlock avoided her face as long as his luminous eyes would allow him to, choosing instead to take in the details that were substantial and of high importance. The man who held her was strong, towering over Sherlock by a good fifteen centimeters, and his hand was wound mercilessly in Eponine's coils of copper hair, ensnared by their vine-like waves and locked in place. It made the detective frown: if he were able to disarm the man, it would have to be quite literally to avoid causing her pain, but this very thought seemed odd to Sherlock even as it passed through his mind and he cast it aside. He had no doubt she wouldn't get out of this without some suffering, even as much as he would like to avoid it. Aside from his hand at the back of her head, the man held no real guard over her. She could get away easily if she were willing to tear away from him, though Sherlock doubted that was something any sane person was willing to do.

"And then there was one." Ben allowed his eyes to shift away from Sherlock and to the face of the woman he had once called _friend. _She did not meet his eye, choosing instead to look upon Sherlock. There was no helpless disposition in her eye and she did not look to him begging for salvation. It made the madman frown to see her so unfazed by his betrayal. "I really am rather impatient." His words came as a slurred mumble.

"Why wait?" Sherlock tilted his chin forward a fraction, eyes flickering between Eponine and Ben, refusing to meet her watchful gaze.

She had faith in him. Sherlock Holmes was incredibly strange, incredibly insane, and incredibly loyal. Eponine watched with a careful eye, trying to read the man the way he could do anyone else in the world. She tried to hid the disappointment that she could not do as such, as to be expected. No one was as clever as him and no one ever would be- including Ben, she reminded herself. Whatever he had planned, Sherlock would be one step ahead. As the two men squared off, their eyes locked in an internal battle of wits: black versus white, hot versus cold, justice versus corruption.

"It would take ten seconds if I put a bullet in her head." Ben's eyes seemed to glow against his pale skin, holding contact with Sherlock's in an undisputed contest. "Three minutes if I cut her throat, give or take how well my aim is. Would you like to place a bet?"

Eponine's heart jumped as Ben tore his eyes away from Sherlock's face and his arm rose, the barrel of his gun pressed into her hair. She willed her eyes to stay open, forcing the tears back down her throat. Sherlock still refused to look at her, staring straight ahead at the man in front of him. His expression was unreadable, plastic coated and unmoving. Eponine felt the cold metal ring against her temple, against the wound that had already been inflicted. She winced as he pushed ever so slightly against it, a surging pain tearing through the side and back of her head as the metal soaked in the coagulated blood on her skin.

"Go ahead then." Sherlock's voice was hallow, distant and unfamiliar. Eponine felt her limbs quake as he spoke, a small click coming from beside her ear as Ben shifted the safety of the gun to 'off.' There was a moment of silence, the air thickening and strangling Eponine so that she could make no sound, stiffening her body so that even the shaking came to an abrupt halt and fear began to violate her body. "Are you going to shoot her or not?"

The room was torn to shreds as Ben's teeth crunched, a low growl escaping his throat as the gun swiveled toward Sherlock, firing almost as quickly as it had moved. The window behind him exploded, fragments of glass raining over the four occupants of the room. Two more shots were heard almost simultaneously, one of which buried itself into the couch, sending a tuft of cotton into the air. Sherlock's hands wrapped around Ben's wrist, jerking him toward the ground fluidly and pulling the bone in another direction entirely.

Screams erupted with the sounds of breaking glass and gunshots: from Eponine as the burly man fell to the ground, blood erupting through his forehead as the wood behind them splintered. He fell with a resounding thud, taking Eponine down with him. John was over her a moment later, removing the offending hand from her hair and pulling her to safety. Blood coated her hair and hands as she scrambled into John's arms. Another scream came from the opposite end of the room before they were completely on their feet, drawing their attention from the man on the floor with a bullet in the back of his head.

Sherlock was on his side, one hand wrapped around Ben's arm and the other pushing against his torso. The other man loomed half-over the detective, near-mocking the same position. The gun had found its way on the other side of them, out of reach from the spectators. They moved quickly, throwing each other on their backs and slamming bodies into furniture and walls. Ben shoved Sherlock hard into the wall beside the broken out window, both men shouting from the very movement. They were bleeding, bits of glass embedded into their faces and necks from rolling on the ground. Eponine clung to John, who yelled out for Sherlock in the very moment Ben's hands wrapped around a large piece of glass that jutted from the window pane.

"_Sherlock!"_ Eponine's voice cracked from the very strain as the glass found its way into his abdomen. He cried out as the wound began to bleed, Ben's hand suffering slight damage from the sharpened edges as he yanked it about in the wound, tearing the flesh with a smug grin on his face. Eponine tore away from John, his fingers skimming her back as she fled toward the fight. With all the weight of the world on her shoulders, Eponine took a literal leap of faith, her arms coming around Ben's throat and dragging the two of them to the floor. Sherlock tumbled forward after them, the glass wrenching itself from his ragged wound, blood pooling below his torso. John was moving forward, unaware of his destination, but knowing he had to move. Ben rolled, Eponine still clinging to his back as he slammed her between himself and the wall. She let out a cry, her arms coming loose. He turned, grabbing her arm and pinning it between their bodies, twisting her body so that her face was shoved against the wall.

"_Do not test me." _Ben's teeth bared. She writhed, head shaking beneath his hand. She kicked and thrashed, her elbow shoving hard into his stomach. The slightest leeway was given as Ben winced and she dropped to the floor beneath him. He lifted his foot, the heel of his boot so close to her face, she could not see when his body was wrenched away from her, his body slammed into the floor with such intensity, the chandelier above them rocked with the force. Eponine felt her breath return for just that moment. John was already at her side, pulling her to her feet, obscuring her vision.

"He needs help," She was talking to John as he looked her over, but she couldn't remember the words flowing from her mouth. She saw Sherlock, the curls in his hair loosened with sweat and hanging over his face, skin burning red and eyes searing into the man he had pinned below him, all of his body weight on Ben's back and arms folded behind him. Sherlock's knuckles were white with the grip and the blood on his abdomen slowed, but not stopped as it dripped onto the man who had caused the wound.

* * *

He was running on pure adrenaline, the fire in his wound surging through his body like a desert storm. The sounds of sirens had faded somewhere into white noise and Ben's laughter erupted into the air around them. Sherlock fought the urge to slam his face into the wooden floor, climbing off of him slowly as soon as the room filled with officers. Someone told him that he needed medical attention, but he had moved past them, his long legs doing a favor in strides. Dark hair, matted with blood, came into his vision. She was in John's grip and as soon as the doctor saw Sherlock's adrenaline-fueled form, he whispered something into her hair and she turned to look at Sherlock. The tears had finally started to flow from her eyes and she was weakened, her own hormones finally beginning to fade out. It was a matter of time, he knew, before he began to feel the pain as shock took over his body. But for now, there was nothing more important in the world than what he was about to do.

His hand reached out and took Eponine's arm, though he was sure his fingers pressed harder into her sore muscles than he had meant, it wasn't his concern. Her mouth opened, but words never left as she seemed to shake under his hardened eyes.

"You could have gotten killed, what were you thinking?" His voice thundered over the sounds of the scene swarming around them, earning some disapproving looks from the crime scene photographers and the officers taking notes.

"I was thinking I wasn't about to sit here and let you be killed." Eponine chewed back, an unfamiliar twinge of bitterness lacing each syllable. "You were perfectly willing to let him shoot me in the head!" A sob escaped her and Sherlock found his grip on her arm relax, but he kept his hand firm- she wasn't getting away so easily.

"He wouldn't have." He assured her, confidence filling his voice. She did not appear convinced and the anger surged through him once more. "You about let a serial killer put his foot down your throat, you complete idiot!"

"I saved your life, you insufferable git!" Eponine fought, swallowing her pride for a fraction. A look of hurt crossed through Sherlock's eye and her heart jumped. She had never seen him express emotional pain, at least not to her eye. "I didn't mean that. I just..."

Sherlock's hand dropped, but his eyes trained on her face. Neither of them noticed when John had slipped away to give Lestrade the details of what had happened. Pain spiked through Sherlock's stomach and he doubled over. Eponine felt an entirely new wave of empathy as she knelt by his side, calling for the EMTs he had already once refused. An eternity passed, the two of them kneeling in the middle of the controlled chaos.

"Sherlock," Her voice was a whisper, lost in the pools of blood and glass. Another tear dripped from her chin and her hands found his face, too afraid of hurting him to hug him- too afraid of losing him to simply watch. Her heart jolted again when their eyes met, electricity shooting through Sherlock's irises. She could make out each emotion in the freckles of gold and blue in his pale, haunting eyes: pain, suffering, a touch of happiness and relief, and if she looked very closely, Eponine swore she could see the smallest speck of fear in the caramel centers. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

She didn't know what she was apologizing for before the words left her mouth. They were hanging in the air before anything had happened, but confusion was lost to them when she closed the space between them, sealing the air lock between their mouths. There was a moment of stiffness on the receiving end, but he seemed to relax after a hesitant moment. Sherlock didn't kiss her back, and somehow she was alright with that.

It didn't work the way it did in romance novels or the movies. There were no butterflies erupting in Eponine's stomach or fireworks exploding in the sky above them. Angels did not sing in the Heavens and the world did not vanish into the depths of Mariana's Trench nor did time come to a standstill. Blood still stuck to their skins and their bodies ached with various wounds. Eponine felt the cold, blood-kissed cheekbones beneath her hands, the movement of his jaw almost undetectable beneath the red prints on her fingertips. His mouth was not as cold as she might have thought, a thankful reminder that his life, and hers, had been spared once more. Heat had crept into Eponine's face when she let go, suddenly hyper aware of her actions, the racing world around her, and the man who knelt in pain in front of her. She didn't look at him as she stood up, silently thanking the EMT who had heard her calling out and had come to Sherlock's aid. He was helped to his feet without protest and Eponine followed beside him, their shoulders brushing as they walked toward the ambulance.

Sherlock glanced at Eponine, maybe once or twice- probably more, he wasn't counting- on the way down the boat ramp, across the dock, and to the ambulance on the street. His arm had come to lay across the wound, a subconscious effort to keep himself afloat. She had stuck by his side as they walked in silence, neither of them acknowledging what had just occurred. He was looked upon vigorously and spotted John making his way toward them, nearly running through the crowd that had formed on the street. Eponine cleared her throat from beside him, turning her head away.

He had felt her pulse through her hands as she held his face. He had seen the pupils in her eyes dilate and the redness creep up on her cheeks. It didn't even take Sherlock Holmes (despite the fact that he was, in fact, Sherlock Holmes) to see the way she was suddenly very aware of all of these things, how she had avoided his gaze, didn't speak, and her fingers fidgeted with her coat buttons.

Even as the world began to slow back down, the police cars taking away the man who had almost ended their lives, Sherlock found himself suddenly very aware that his body temperature had increased, despite the fact that they had come out into the cold, his pulse just a few beats per minute too fast. As John finally closed in on them, Sherlock chalked those symptoms up to "almost died," choosing to ignore that the tingle on his mouth was not part of that pattern.


End file.
